Gravity
by KISSwitaFist
Summary: "Sherlock Holmes, once you get passed his arrogant curtness, is so much more. He's-I'm getting ahead of myself. I can't explain unless I actually explain. Thus, this v-log. So, lets start from the very beginning. It all started with a murder." HolmesxOC
1. Introduction

****_Sherlock (BBC) story~! Woot! It shall be a SherlockxOC love story-don't like, don't read. I hope you all enjoy; Sherlock Holmes is a hard guy to write for, so I hope I do him justice. Thank you. Please review~!_

_**Disclaimer:**** I do NOT own Sherlock or Sherlock Holmes, they are rightfully owned by the original owners. I just own my OCs, and some plot points.**_

_**Warning:**** SherlockxOC romance, swearing, gore, violence, mild sexual content, crude humor, and alcohol and drug references.**_

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><p><strong><span>Introduction<span>**

Brushing some items aside on the very cluttered desk, a young woman in her mid-twenties with yellow hair placed the slim, silver laptop she had been holding in her arms upon it, also with a notepad. She pulled up the chair and perched herself leisurely on it before lifting the computer's top. Its screen, apple symbol, and keys illuminated and the inside hummed softly announcing that it was starting up. Once it had, the blonde slid her fingertips over the mouse pad to move the cursor to _iMovie_; she clicked on the application to open it.

With a couple more clicks here and there, the webcam on the _MacBook Air_ switched on with a little green light. Soon, the female was looking at herself on the screen. She cleared her throat with a hint of bashfulness and smoothed back her thick tresses from her dark optics. Then, she pressed the red "Record" button.

Boldly and smoothly, she spoke, "I'm going to start by stating the obvious. This is going to be a v-log. _My_ v-log, my diary, of sorts.

"Most people write in a journal about their personal lives and keep it private or do something like this to show the world that they got quite the gob and want a lot of attention, thinking others actually care about their tedious lives."

She paused, biting her bottom lip slightly. "…No offense to those who do the latter." she added.

After scratching her nose albeit awkwardly, she went on, "Either way, I hate writing, takes too bloody long, and under normal circumstances, I would not do something like this as my personal life is no one's fucking business. However, these entries that I have decided to share with you lot are anything but normal. And that's wording it delicately.

"So, maybe this won't be exactly like a diary, but more of a story about a certain time in my life." She shrugged a shoulder, waving a well-manicured hand dismissively. "Mere semantics. Now," Bringing up one knee to her chest, she inclined forward towards the screen, her image increasing. "For those who are watching and are thinking "Gee, she looks awfully familiar. Is she-?" The answer is, yes, I am Elise Cooper. For those who have no idea who I am," She waved with a small, lopsided grin. "Hiya. I'm Larissa Elise Cooper. And this is my story. My story, my life, revolving around a single man.

"Sherlock Holmes.

"If you've ever met the bloke and spoke to him, even for a moment, you're probably asking yourself "Why the Hell would you log about a bastard like him?" Honestly, I can't say I'd blame you. Nevertheless…"

Larissa drifted, an unreadable expression on her lightly tanned face. Tugging on her earlobe, she rested the side of her head on her propped kneecap. She was silent for a few moments.

Finally, in the corner of her eye, she gazed back at the screen. "I have my reasons. Sherlock Holmes, once you get passed his arrogant curtness, is so much more. He's-" She shook her head as if clearing it of something. She lifted her head and stared straight at the camera again. "I'm getting ahead of myself. I can't explain unless I actually _explain_. Thus, this v-log." Sitting up properly, she tucked a few strands behind her ears. "So lets start from the very beginning.

"It all started with a murder…"

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><p><em>Thanks for reading. Please review~!<em>


	2. Entry 1: Part 1

****_Okidokie, kiddies, here's the next chapter. Oh! Happy New Year's and for those who are from the UK, you lucky duckies, hope you enjoyed the first episode of Sherlock Season 2-I will find a way to watch it 'cuz I REFUSE to wait until May. Anyway, here's the next chapter. Thank you to those who favored and subscribed and a special thanks to **Bookwormie**, **TadPole11**, and **aandm20** for reviewing. Please enjoy. Thankies. :))_

_**Disclaimer:**** I do NOT own Sherlock or Sherlock Holmes, they are owned by their rightful owners. I just own Larissa Elise, other OCs, and some plot points.**_

_**Warning:**** Sherlock and OC romance, crude humor, swearing, mild sexual content, gore, violence, and alcohol and drug references.**_

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><p><strong><span>Entry 1: Part 1<span>**

Steam hung about the women's locker room, along with the scent of sweat, soap, and perfume. Noises of animated chatter, locker doors opening and closing, running showers, and moving about footsteps echoed throughout that section of _Energie Fitness Club_ in Hackney, Central London.

With a towel wrapped snuggly around my tall frame and another gathered upon my head around my hair, I leisurely stepped away from the showers towards my locker. By my side, speaking energetically, was a lanky girl like myself.

"You did such an amazing job today, Miss. Cooper!" the other female said happily, drying her messy hair with her hands while clumsily trying to keep her towel on. As she spoke, the redhead's big hazel eyes twinkled and a big, bright grin was on her freckled, youthful face.

"Fiona, I told you, call me Elise." I replied casually. We reached our lockers and I placed the combination into the lock swiftly to unlock my locker. I brought out my gym clothes from within it. "You make me feel old when you call me that. I'm not that much older than you."

Immediately, the adolescent's cheeks became flushed as she gasped. "Oh! I'm sorry!" she apologized, clasping her tiny hands over her petite mouth.

I tried not to roll my eyes; I was steadily getting used to the girl's quickly apologetic and sheepish ways. I gave her a small one-sided smile. "Relax, sweetie. There's no need to apologize. I'm just saying that you should call me Elise. We are friends, are we not?"

My words caused Fiona to instantly brighten as if Christmas had come early.

She grinned widely, nodding eagerly. "Y-Yes! Of course, Miss—I-I mean, Elise!"

I couldn't help but smile a little myself. I had to admit she looked a lot prettier when she smiled and it made me feel a bit better when she did.

Just nodding in approval, I started to slip on my undergarments. "And you know you did quite well today as well." I pointed out.

Again, the redhead blushed. She looked down, putting on her T-shirt, and shook her head. "N-Not really. I'm nowhere near the level you are. I'm surprised _Storm_ let me model for them at all." she muttered softly.

If anyone else had said that, I would've ignored him or her or I would've told them off for sounding so pathetic. However, since it was Fiona who had said it, I refrained from either action. It was sad actually. Fiona was a decent model, she had a bright future, but not many people took notice or appreciated her work or just her in general. It was obvious that that affected the girl's self-esteem, which wasn't very high when she first started at _Storm_ a few months ago to begin with.

"Fiona, you just started. You have to work your way up; you'll get there. Don't fret. You're doing very well. Keep doing what you're doing and someone will finally notice how good you are." I claimed, tugging on my yoga pants.

Slowly, she peered to me, blinking up at me. "You…you really think so, Elise?"

"Of course." I replied coolly.

Fiona smiled softly, graciously. "You're a very kind person."

I stared at her for a moment with furrowed brows. Not many people associated me with that word. Hell, I didn't even think I was particularly kind. Thus, I wasn't entirely sure what to say.

All I could think of saying, while shrugging a shoulder, was, "Not really, but thank you."

The ginger giggled at me, causing me to arch an eyebrow and pause in placing my swimsuit and toiletries in my sports bag. "You should learn how to take compliments better."

I blinked then, continued packing. I was going to say nothing to that and when Fiona realized that, still smiling, she finished doing the same. Once we were done, we exited the locker room and made our way through busy fitness center towards the double glass automatic doors. It was nighttime and fairly cool out, so we wrapped our jackets tighter around us while we tried hailing a cab.

Yet, just a black taxi pulled up in front of us and the two of us were about to pile in, a voice called out my companion's name.

We turned our heads to see that parked on the street's corner was a young man perched on a motorbike. He was a blonde man with fine features and had a James Dean demeanor to him. He was waving at us with a crooked grin.

Fiona beamed. "Paul!"

I arched an eyebrow curiously. _Paul?_

It took me a moment to remember him. Paul was the bloke that Fiona had been dating for about a fortnight now; she was constantly talking about how wonderful and handsome he was—well, he certainly was handsome, but the whole "bad boy" look didn't exactly appeal to me.

Fiona turned to me. "Do you mind if-?" She gestured towards Paul. Her face was apologetic, but I could tell she wasn't entirely sorry as she was nearly bouncing on her heels with excitement.

I waved my hand dismissively. "Go. Have fun. Use protection."

Laughing, she playfully smacked my arm. That was before hugging me tightly. "Thanks, Elise! I'll see you tomorrow! Have a good night!" she exclaimed, jogging off, her bag and hair bouncing with her peppy movement.

"You too." I idly waved.

I watched the couple kiss briefly before Paul gave her a helmet, which she put on as she hopped onto the back of the bike. Soon, the engine roared and they were off down the street. I watched for a moment longer as they disappeared then, filed into the cab.

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><p>Flipping on the lights of my flat with the switch on the wall beside the front door, I kicked off my trainers, placed my jacket on the coatrack, and dumbed my back beside before stepping further inside. I tugged my golden locks loose from its high ponytail and strolled to my kitchen while turning on the telly, so <em>BBC News<em> came on.

I placed the kettle on the stove to brew up some tea and pulled out some leftover chips from the fridge to put them in the microwave. As I was busy with that, a report on the news caused my ears to perk.

"_Last night, the body of international model, Anne Kingston, 28, of FM Agency, was discovered in the agency's bathroom._" I turned around at that to see that an emotionless African American male with a big mustache was speaking. On the screen above his head was a picture of a beautiful brunette with small, blue eyes. "_A make-up artist found Miss. Kingston earlier this morning. Police are saying that Miss. Kingston has drowned and they are suspecting foul play. No suspects have been found at this moment in time. Miss. Kingston is the fifth model found dead in the past two months. Is there a possible connection? If so, what?_"

Frowning deeply, I crossed my arms over my chest as I leaned against the kitchen counter. The news was on another article, but I was paying attention. My thoughts were dwelling on the previous one.

_Is there a possible connection?_

I scoffed.

Of course there was a bloody connection. How could there not be, especially at this point? Five models at top agencies had been killed in the past two months. That was not a coincidence. The police were just being thick. All of those victims had been killed at their agencies—mind you, in different ways—and were newcomers to the business. You'd have to be blind to not see the connections. It was_ blatantly_ obvious. The only problem was there were absolutely no suspects. There had been a few, but they had all fallen through. Thus, the police were left with nothing, which meant more girls were just going to keep getting killed.

Sighing deeply, raking a hand through my thick hair, I shook my head and checked on my tea.

Why were those amateur models being targeted? If they were top models, I suppose I'd understand with jealousy, money, and etc. being the motives. Amateur models weren't at that level just yet to have such things against them; they weren't well known or particularly rich. Either way, who was targeting these models? What was the motive? What were they getting out of this? Was it one person or was it a group that were killing the models?

Pausing in pouring my hot beverage, I mentally scolded myself.

It wasn't my problem. People died everyday. Murder happened everyday. I wasn't a detective, I was a simple model; I didn't solve mysteries. I was _just_ a model. Just a boring, simple model. End of story. Thank you. Good night.

After that, I changed the channel to something ridiculous like _Funny Talking Animals-Walk On the Wild Side_ to watch for a small bit, quickly drank my tea and ate my food before changing out of my gym clothes, getting into my jammies and going to bed.

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><p>I was always one of the first people to arrive at agency when I had a photoshoot, I'd even be there before some of the staff, as I usually like to go to the wardrobe and try on everything—even the men's clothing. They tell you not to as their afraid that something might get destroyed, but I didn't care—still don't. It was childish, but it was entertaining, at least to me, and it made me feel slightly rebellious. Besides, I was careful and made sure that everything was put away exactly as I had found it.<p>

However, unfortunately, the next day when I arrived at the _Storm _agency and made my way straight to the wardrobe area, after absentmindedly waving to the few early risers like myself, I regretted my little defiant habit.

Lying down on her back with a shocked, tearstained face was Fiona. Blood had streamed down a large gash at her temple, which had bruising around it, blending in with her fiery hair. Her eyes were wide open and lifeless.

I don't know how long I stood there, staring at her. I was frozen. Not a single thought crossed my mind; it was completely blank.

That was until someone, a make-up girl, I think, came into the room calling for me. They instantly froze like me before they released a horrified shriek.

Afterwards, everything happened so quickly that it was, truthfully, one, big blur.

At the person's scream, more people came to see the dreadful sight. The police was called, so soon the agency was filled with murmuring people, frightened models and staff, briskly working police and EMTs, and so on. I had spectated, watching intently and critically, far away from the crowds beside my make-up artist, Dino Nomades, who had his arm around my shoulders; I think he was crying.

I only broke out of my pensive state when my name was called by an unfamiliar, but pleasantly deep male's voice.

I blinked a couple of times and lifted my head to see two men, whom I have never seen in my life, standing before us with grave expressions on their faces.

One of the men, looking like the youngest of the two, was quite tall; a few inches taller than myself. He had delicate features with high cheekbones, dark curly hair, and very light blue-hued eyes. The other was shorter, shorter than myself, even if I hadn't been wearing the heels I had been wearing at the time, and held himself very well; very much like a soldier. His very short hair was dirty blonde and his eyes were a soft brown. They were almost like each other's exact opposites.

"Are you Elise Cooper? Are you the one who had discovered Miss. Fiona Holt's body?" asked the taller male of the two. His voice was firm and cool.

I glanced between them, eyeing them once again before steadily and softly replying, "I am." My voice must've cracked or faltered because the Hispanic man holding me gave me a solemn expression and tightened his arm around me.

"Mind if we ask you some questions, Miss. Cooper?"

"Who are you? You're not police."

Police didn't hold themselves the way they did. Besides, officers had already spoken to me when they had arrived; there was no point in speaking to me twice in the past hour.

"I am Sherlock Holmes," the dark-haired man announced, sounding quite proud. Then, almost as if it was a second thought, Sherlock motioned to the other man beside him. "And this is my colleague Dr. John Watson. And no, we are not police officers." Dr. Watson gave me a nod in greeting.

I narrowed my eyes.

If they were not police then, who were they? Reporters, perhaps? Maybe, but they didn't hold themselves like journalists either. Nonetheless, if they weren't police officers, I did not have to answer them.

"Then, yes, I mind if you ask me some question, Mr. Holmes." I retorted dully. "If you are not police then there is no reason for us to speak." I could hear Dino scolding me softly in my ear, but I ignored him and pulled away from him. "Now, if you'll excuse me, as you can tell, it's been a trying day. I shall be going home."

I stalked off, feeling a great weight in my chest. I waited to cry until I got home.

And that was the first time I met Sherlock Holmes. Very brief and nothing special.

Our second meeting was quite the opposite.

It was nearly two days later when Sherlock and I met again.

Dino and I had the day off, so he decided to take me out for lunch at one of our favorite café's in East London. My friend was ordering and retrieving our meal while I sat at our small table at the way in the back of the establishment, staring out the window, absentmindedly fiddling with the silver necklace around my neck, people watching—one of my favorite pastimes, by the way.

I was watching an overly-sized woman, wearing clothes that certainly did not suit her, wrestle with her umbrella to protect herself from the light midafternoon shower—the umbrella was winning—when Sherlock and his partner, John appeared.

"May I sit here?" Sherlock inquired, but the question was meaningless as he was already sitting across from me. John made a disapproving face and remained standing.

I deadpanned, staring at him. _Why did you ask if you were just going to fucking do it anyway?_ "What do you want?"

"To ask you questions, of course," he claimed promptly. "You had left so suddenly, we didn't have time to properly chat."

He was making fun of me, I was sure of it. He was saying it straight-faced, but he was being cheeky, that bastard.

"Look, I told you, since you two are not police, I have no reason to speak with you." I said firmly, doing my best to sound calm. "A girl was murdered, so I don't know what you two are playing at, but I'm not amused, all right? So just piss off."

Sherlock just gave a meager arch of his eyebrow while John frowned deeply. He was the one who spoke, speaking delicately and kindly, "We're not playing at anything, Miss. Cooper and yes, it's true, we are not police, but we are assisting the Scotland Yard."

I eyed them skeptically. "You two? Helping Scotland Yard?" I gave an indignant snort. "You two are just civilians. Just amateurs."

John sighed deeply in frustration at my stubbornness. "Miss. Copper," he tried again, but was cut off by Sherlock, "Fiona Holt was eighteen-years-old and was of Irish descent. Both her parents, Kimberlyn and Nicolas were born in Ireland, but immigrated to England two years before Fiona was born. Fiona went to an all-girl's Catholic School in Cardiff and graded with average marks. She became a model shortly after graduating. She has been a model for _Storm_ a little under four months and has been featured in only one magazine," he stated as if he was reading it from book.

I gave a mocking clap. "Congrats, but that doesn't prove anything. Anyone can read that off from the internet."

Sherlock gave a sniff before leaning forward on the table, which caused me to instinctively lean back. He laced his long-fingered hands in front of him. "Fiona had been bludgeoned to death with the stiletto heel she had been wearing, having been hit a maximum of seven times before the shoe was placed back on her foot. The shoe being her left one to be exact. She didn't fight back as her assailant had been someone she trusted, someone very close to her thus, the pure shock upon her face and the crying. Then, Fiona was too sweet of a girl to fight back, mousy, she'd never hurt a fly no matter the circumstances. Her shyness is also probably why she hasn't gotten further in her career despite her talent. She had just come from the gym, the _Energie Fitness Club_ to be exact according the membership badge on her key ring, from the workout clothes in her bag—she had changed some time after leaving the gym in the room where she had been murdered. She had just been swimming (you could smell the chlorine on her even though she had showered), but not very well considering she had terrible arthritis of the right knee from a childhood accident where she had broken it weakening it. Her assailant knew her leg's weakness, and used it against her to bring her down." he said nonchalantly.

When he was finished, I knew that my jaw was slack and my eyes were wide.

How the Hell did he know all that? If he was a normal civilian there was no way the police nor the forensics team would enclose that to either him or his partner. However, they weren't part of the forensics team either so how did he know all that? Who the Hell was this guy?

I was just about to ask when Dino appeared, his arms full with our food. Worriedly and quizzically, the—fake—blue-eyed male looked at the three of us. "Elise, is…everything okay?" he asked hesitantly.

I couldn't respond as I just looked at Sherlock gobsmacked. Sherlock looked back, but only for a moment as he rose shortly, placing a piece of paper from his heavy coat pocket on the table. "When you feel like speaking with us, that is our address. I'd suggest you'd hurry and become compliant soon, though. Preferably, this evening." he claimed. "Lets go, John."

With that and the swishing of his overcoat, he walked out of the café. John gave us a small, polite nod and then, quickly filed after Sherlock. I stared them off until Dino waved a hand in front of my face to snap me out of it. I blinked up at him.

"Wha' in the name of the Queen was that?" the olive-toned male asked dumbfounded.

"I-I d-don't…" I drifted, shaking my head, unable to think coherently. I glanced down at the piece of paper that Sherlock was placed before me.

_221b Baker Street._

Like I said, the second time I met Sherlock Holmes was the _exact_ opposite of our first meeting.

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><p><em>Thanks for reading~! Please, review! :))<em>


	3. Entry 1: Part 2

_All right, my lovelies, here's part three. Thank you so much for the favorites, alters, and reviews; makes me so happy, so keep it up. I hope you enjoy this next part, if ya do, review. Constructive criticism is welcomed. Thankies._

_**Disclaimer:**** I do NOT own Sherlock or Sherlock Holmes, they are owned by the rightful owners. I just own Larissa Elise, other OCs, and some plot points.**_

_**Warning:**** Sherlock and OC romance, swearing, crude humor, mild sexual content, gore, and violence, and drug and alcohol references.**_

* * *

><p><strong><span>Entry 1: Part 2<span>**

Maybe I'm just being vain, but I was never one to get scared easily. Until I met Sherlock, that is.

If I want to do something, I do it without a second thought. I never think about the consequences or any of that nonsense. Not a single inkling of fear held me back and made me think about my actions.

However, I was actually scared to walk through the front door of 221b Baker Street that evening and speak to Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, particularly Sherlock. I didn't know why but after our talk at the café that afternoon, I was actually frightened by him. His words, the intellect and nonchalance that poured out of them intimidated me.

I mean, though I'm reluctant to admit it, the first time we met, he intimidated me; just something about his very presence made me slightly apprehensive. And what Dino had showed me after Sherlock and John left the café didn't make me feel any better.

Dino had shown me Sherlock's website on his _iPhone_. The Science of Deduction. He had also shown me Dr. John Watson's blog on his phone too about the cases he had done with said consulting detective—an occupation Sherlock had created himself. Sherlock Holmes was an absolute genius, he "sees through everyone and everything in seconds". And that's frightening. Brilliant, but frightening. I never wanted to see Sherlock Holmes ever again afraid of what else he might say.

Nonetheless, there I was, grasping the address I had been given, staring at the black door of the gray stoned building with the number plate upon it reading 221b—it was right next door to a small shop with a red overhang. Obviously, I was there to see Sherlock and John. I had to speak with them about Fiona's murder and…a part of me was just curious about Sherlock and his mind.

I was curious and scared. Not a very good combination. Exhilarating, but not very good.

"Can I help you, dear?"

Blinking, jumping startled, I looked to see a kind-looking, elderly woman looking at me expectantly. She was small, nicely dressed, and had light hair curled upon her head. My cheeks became flushed as I been caught gawking like I was some sort of nutter.

Clearing my throat, I regained my composure as best as possible and gave a polite grin. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but does a Sherlock Holmes and a Dr. John Watson live here?" I queried.

"Yes, they live here." she nodded with an inviting smile. "Wait," Then, she tilted her head slightly, her brows furrowing as she looked me over. I blushed, making a face, knowing that look all too well. "Are you…Elise Cooper? Elise Cooper the model?" she asked.

"Yes. That's me. Pleasure to meet you…" I muttered shyly.

"You can call me, Mrs. Hudson, love! And bless my stars, you're _the _Elise Cooper! I've bought every magazine you've ever featured in! Oh, my! You're even more beautiful in person!" she gushed joyously, hands placed to her wrinkled cheeks.

"Uh, th-thank you, Mrs. Hudson." I said graciously. "Do you think-?"

"Oh! Hold on! Do you think you could sign an issue for me?" the older, yet shorter female asked hopeful.

I bit my lip, doing my best to be good-mannered. "…I-I suppose, but could I-"

"Mrs. Hudson, please don't harass our guest. I'm sure she's chilly, let her in." spoke a male's behind her, which caused me to stiffen as I recognized it. The lanky, inky-haired man appeared behind her wearing a fairly smug smirk. "Good evening, Miss. Cooper. I was expecting you a tad later, but I suppose curiosity got the better of you," he said to me from over Mrs. Hudson.

My blush deepened as my body tensed. _He knew this was going to happen…that arrogant prick., _I thought, my expression turning a scowl. "I don't know what you're talking about." I retorted defensively.

His smirk widened. "I'm sure you don't."

"I'm here to answer your questions like you requested." I said stubbornly.

"Of course." was his simple reply. "Please, come inside."

Just glowering at him, I complied and stepped into the warmth of the flat's foyer maneuvering between Mrs. Hudson and him. Sherlock closed the door behind me and gestured to the steps in front of us. "Upstairs. Follow me. If you could, Mrs. Hudson, some tea and biscuits." he said offhandedly before ascending the steps.

"I'm not your housekeeper, Sherlock, but considering our guest," Mrs. Hudson flashed me an admiring grin, which I warily returned. "Just this once." She disappeared into the other room.

I sighed deeply and trailed after Sherlock.

The flat was fairly cluttered, but homey, in an odd way. It wasn't very bright as the décor was dark. News clippings and photographs hung over the fireplace, where a skull laid—was it real? The living room was a fair size and was attached to the kitchen. There a small TV and chairs around the fireplace. On the other side was a leather couch. Windows lined the back wall with curtains and there was one or two bookcases filled with books. Papers, two laptops, and few knickknacks littered the single desk in the room. It was a scattered living room, very busy, but I got this small feel of warmth and intellect hovering in the room. I also had a feeling that Sherlock had pretty much took up the majority of the room.

Upon seeing me, John tore his attention away from the television, and stood with a polite smile. "Hello again, Miss. Cooper."

I gave a tiny nod as I shrugged off my jacket. "Elise, please, and hello to you, too."

"Wouldn't you prefer Larissa?" Sherlock inquired from where he sat on the long leather couch to my far right.

I stiffened at that while John questioned bemused. "Larissa?" he mouthed.

I looked to Sherlock. "How did you know my name was Larissa? That's not even on my webpage." I said albeit warily.

"The necklace around your neck that you keep tucked underneath your clothes. Caught a glimpse of it at the café today. You were playing with it before we arrived. It says Larissa, which couldn't be the name of anyone else, since you don't seem the type to have "Best Friends" necklaces. And you don't seem the type to keep a gift from a past lover either. Thus, it had to be your name. A lot of models often change their name when they enter your profession, so you changed yours from Larissa to your middle name, Elise." he explained dully.

"O-Oh," I bit my lip, not entirely sure how else to react to that. If he had gotten all that from just seeing my necklace, what else could he possibly know about me? It made me even more uneasy about that man, yet more inquisitive as well.

I glanced to John, who was sitting again and he gave me a sympathetic nod. Clearly, Sherlock had done such things to him before and/or he had witnessed his partner to deduce such in front of him more than once.

Clearing my throat slightly, I smoothed back my hair and placed my coat on the back of a chair. I addressed the men, particularly Sherlock. "All right. Anyway, you asked me to come, so I came. Ask your questions." I claimed as boldly as possible, crossing my arms over my chest.

"You were very close to Fiona Holt, were you not?" the curly-haired man asked. He was hunched forward, lacing his fingers.

"I wouldn't say very close. We were colleagues. She only came to the agency a few months ago. Fiona sort of latched herself onto me and I didn't particularly mind, I guess." I admitted with a meager shrug.

"You took her under your wing."

"If you'd wish to see it that way, I suppose, in a sense, yes."

"You were her only friend."

My brows furrowed as I made a face. He wasn't asking questions so much as he was stating observations. Nonetheless, I replied, "At the modeling agency, yes. At least among the models; Dino, my make-up artist, seemed to enjoy her company. Outside, not so much. She had quite a few friends from her school days; she'd spend time with them when she wasn't working. She even had a boyfriend."

"Why did she have no friends at the agency?" wondered John aloud.

"Probably because of her timid nature. Fiona was a sweet and pretty girl with talent, but had low self-esteem. She let people take advantage of her; she let people walk all over her. And because of that, most of the girls, sometimes even the guys, teased or shunned her and the agency heads didn't take notice of her." I explained, leaning against the side of the desk careful not to knock anything over.

"That's dreadful." he frowned.

I arched an eyebrow; he seemed like he was actually disheartened by what I had said. I looked to Sherlock and he seemed bored by it, he looked like he couldn't care less.

The two men were indeed opposites. The passionate, kind doctor and the logical, straightforward consulting detective. Interesting. A very interesting combination.

Either way, at John's reaction, I gave a shrug of one shoulder. "Unless you have complete confidence in yourself and a strong personality, you barely get spared a glance in the modeling business whether you're gorgeous or not. That's how you got to be to make it."

"And you're like that." Sherlock piped up.

I turned my blue eyes to him. "Naturally."

A single dark eyebrow rose. "Is that so?"

"What are you implying?" I said defensively. I didn't like the way he was looking at me, as if he was analyzing me. It made my insides squirm. What was he thinking? What did he know? I couldn't tell, he face was like stone and his eyes gave away nothing—so much for eyes being the windows to the soul.

"I'm not implying anything," he answered dryly, holding up his hand. "I'm sure you have a lot of confidence."

My eyes narrowed. "Look, you-" I began, pointing a threatening—or at least, I thought was threatening—finger at him.

"Sherlock, stop patronizing her." John spoke over me with a sigh. "You wanted to ask her questions. We have a case to solve."

"Yes, right," Sherlock concurred as he rose. He straightened his suit jacket. "Do you, by any chance, have an extra key to Fiona's flat?"

I blinked, my exasperation towards the man evaporating to be replaced with confusion. "…I beg your pardon?" I sputtered dumbly.

He rolled his eyes. "Do you have an extra key to Fiona Holt's flat?" he repeated slowly as if he was speaking to a mentally challenged child. I glowered; my annoyance returned very quickly. "I need access to her home."

"I thought you wanted to ask me questions." I pointed out.

"That was a question," the blue-eyed man stated promptly.

I deadpanned, my right eye had to be twitching. _…Fucking git.,_ I thought, gritting my teeth.

"Now, do you have an extra key, Larissa?"

"Its Elise and yes, I've got a bloody key."

"Splendid!" he grinned as if he didn't hear my anger or if he did, which was most likely the case, he ignored it. He grabbed his dark cape coat and deep blue scarf and threw them on. "Let us go then!" With that, he nearly skipped out of the room and down the stairs.

I just watched him flabbergasted. That was until a hand was placed upon my shoulder. I went rigid and turned my head to see John. He did his best to give me a comforting and understanding smile. "He's always like that. I'm sorry." he gave my shoulder a pat.

"How do you stand it?" I queried.

Sighing, he shook his head. "That's an awfully good question," he mumbled, tearing away from me and grabbed his black jacket. The fair-haired male trailed after the consulting detective.

I frowned deeply. _…Well, that didn't help at all._, I thought grouchily. I rubbed my face in frustration before snatching up my coat and jogging after them.

I suppose Mrs. Hudson's tea and biscuits would have to wait until later-that included my autograph.

* * *

><p>"Is there a problem?" Sherlock asked me coolly, causing me to jump and snap out of my reverie.<p>

I blinked and peered back at the men standing behind me over my shoulder. They were staring at me expectantly. Blushing deeply, I looked forward. We were standing in front of Fiona's flat and I suppose when we had arrived, I immediately paused and probably had done so for quite sometime considering Sherlock's query.

I don't know why, but I had. Maybe it had been because I finally realized that if we entered, Fiona wasn't going to be there. I mean, of course, I had known that. She was dead, after all, but I guess it had just suddenly hit me fully. Fiona was dead, she wasn't going to answer her door and greet us with a huge, bubbly grin asking if we wanted anything. I had only been to her flat a couple of times, but each time, she made me feel like I was at home. A little overwhelmed, but at home.

Shaking my head, clearing my mind of such thoughts, I fished through my handbag to pull out my key ring. I found the extra key Fiona had given me and went up to the bright yellow door to unlock it. It clicked upon opening, so I pushed it open and motioned inside.

Without hesitating, Sherlock waltzed in. John, on the other hand, was a gentleman and permitted me to enter before him. I guided them up the stairs to Fiona's door only to find that it had yellow police tape over it.

I think I had heard one of them, probably John, mutter, "Lestrade must've already been here." However, I ignored it as I stared at the police tape. Then, suddenly feeling angry for a reason unbeknownst to me, I ripped the tape off and shoved the door open.

Tears abruptly sprung to my eyes as the usual lavender and vanilla of Fiona ensnared my nose. Quickly, though, I choked by the urge to cry—what good was that going to do anyone? Instead, I watched from the sidelines as Sherlock and John moved about Fiona's flat, examining this and that closely with latex gloves. I did my best not to cringe with everything they touched. At least, John was delicate with her possessions. Sherlock…not to so much—thankfully, he hadn't broken anything.

"Elise, who is this with Fiona?" John called to me. He was holding a photograph from off the glass end table beside her flower-patterned loveseat.

I took it from him to look it over.

It was a photo of Fiona and a familiar platinum blonde-haired male. It was Paul. The James Dean-looking man had an arm around the redhead's shoulder while she had her arms smugly around his waist. Fiona's head was tucked beneath Paul's well-defined jaw. They were both smiling widely, especially Fiona; she looked so exuberant. She was really a good kid; it was sad, truly and terribly sad.

"That's Paul. Fiona's boyfriend. They had been dating for only a couple weeks." I announced softly.

"Two weeks?" asked Sherlock loudly. He wasn't looking at me when he spoke, but at a piece of paper, which I couldn't see as to what it entailed.

"Yeah." I nodded.

"Exactly?" He merely lifted his eyes with a small rise of his eyebrows.

"Two weeks by the time of her death, before, or two weeks today?"

"Of her death."

"Mmmmm," I mused for a moment, scratching my nose. "I'm pretty sure, yeah."

He stared at me for a moment, his face impassive. Then, "I see." With that and a swish of his coat, he sauntered out of the room.

I watched him go staggered. Why did he keep doing that?

"You see _what_?" I finally exclaimed in aggravation. I turned to John, who rubbing his temple. "He's an infuriating sod." I declared after releasing a childish huff.

"I've heard people call him worse." John confessed.

"I can't imagine why." I grumbled sarcastically. He gave a tiny, one-sided smile.

"Are you two done gabbing?" Sherlock suddenly appeared in the doorway, causing the ex-soldier and I to jump startled. "I have a cab waiting. I don't mind leaving you behind if you feel like speaking about me some more."

I blanched. _He had heard all that?_

"We'll drop you off at your home, if you wish, Larissa. It's a bit late now," he said, not appearing the least bit fazed. If he was offended, he didn't show it.

"_It's Elise_." I grounded out. His pale optics just stared at me blankly. I sighed, nodding sluggishly. "…Yes. I'd like that. Thank you."

"All right then. Hurry it up." He disappeared again.

I looked back to John to say dully, "I reiterate: he's an infuriating sod."

I filed after Sherlock.

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><p><em>Thanks for reading~! Please review!<em>


	4. Entry 1: Part 3

****_Nine reviews for the first three chapters-oh, my God, I'm so happy! This story is doing a lot better than my Supernatural story and you know what that means? More motivation to focus on this story. Are you all suck lucky ducks? :)) Anyway, thank you for all the support so far, please keep it up-I LOVE hearing from my readers. Here's the next chapter. I hope you all enjoy. If ya do, please review!_

_**Disclaimer:**** I do NOT own Sherlock or Sherlock Holmes, it is owned by its rightful owners. I just own Larissa Elise, other OCs, and some plot points.**_

_**Warning:**** Sherlock and OC romance, crude humor, swearing, mild sexual content, gore, violence, and drug and alcohol references.**_

* * *

><p><strong><span>Entry 1: Part 3<span>**

I didn't hear from or see Sherlock after that. I, however, did hear from John. I had given him my cell phone number in case he and Sherlock found any leads on Fiona's murder—I was apprehensive to give my number to Sherlock for numerous reasons. Unfortunately, John only texted me to say that they hadn't found anything yet. Then again, I was the one contacting him on whether they had—he was probably annoyed with me at that point, even if he hadn't said anything.

Nevertheless, it wasn't until the following Saturday that I saw Sherlock again.

An annual party that was held in London for us models to interact with other models and get ourselves out there more was being held that night and, naturally, I had to go.

Yes, I said _had to_.

Despite my lifestyle and my occupation, I'm not a partygoer.

Well, I'm not a specific kind of partygoer. And aforementioned parties are not my kind of parties. I only went because it was expected of me and I enjoyed dressing up. Not to mention, usually the food was good. Tiny portions, but good, nevertheless.

Much to my dismay, though, I was going to the event alone. Fiona was…well, dead, of course, and Dino was on a holiday with his boyfriend. That being, I had to go stag. It was bothersome, but it happens.

Either way, the party was in about an hour and a half and I had just stepped out of the bath when the front door of flat buzzed.

Arching a thin eyebrow perplexed (I didn't get a lot of visitors), I steadily made my way, barefoot and clothed in just a robe, through my home, scrubbing my long hair rigorously with a towel. The door buzzed again and I went to the buzzer. I pressed the "Answer" button. "Yes?"

"_Larissa, its me. Let me in._"

There was only one person who called me by my genuine first name—much to my dismay.

I blinked repeatedly. "Sh-Sherlock?"

"_Of course. Let me in._"

_Of course?_ I shook my head and buzzed him in. "It's unlocked. Come in."

Soon, there was a knock at my door. I undid the locks and bolts and slowly opened my door. "Good evening." he greeted with a crooked grin.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, sighing deeply.

"I'm your date, obviously."

"…I'm sorry, what?"

"I'm your date."

"Date for what?"

"For tonight's party, of course."

"How'd you-"

Sherlock held up an invitation with fancy handwriting and had Fiona's name on it. It was the paper he had been looking at when we were at her flat.

"Did you steal that from Fiona's flat?" I nearly shrieked aghast.

"Its not as if she'll be using it," he pointed out logically.

"You. Are. An. Ass." I spat angrily.

"I thought I was an infuriating sod," he countered monotonously.

"…You're that, too."

"May I come in?"

"No, you may not."

"You need a date."

My glower darkened. "I don't _need _a date, especially not you. Don't you have other things to do like—oh, I don't know—solving a murder?"

"Would you rather go to a tedious party alone or with company that would make it less dull?" Sherlock asked.

Well, he certainly thought a lot of himself.

Then again…he was right. Despite how much the man annoyed me in the short period time we had known each other, he was interesting. He was fascinating; the inner-workings of his mind intrigued me. Scared me, but intrigued me. Sherlock would probably make the party that night a tad more fun and since we'd be alone—in a sense—I'd probably get a chance to see how his mind worked—or at least _try_ to see how it worked.

"Miss. Cooper," called a shaky, croaky elderly man's voice from down the hall before I could say anything.

An old man of his mid-eighties was waddling out of his flat with his cane—that was most likely as old as he—with little to no hair. He had huge, magnifying glasses, squeaky Velcro shoes, and an ugly jumper.

"What's all the ruckus for?" the old man asked crabbily, very slowly making his way to us. "Is he going to be staying late? You two better not make too much racket."

"Yes, yes, of course, Mr. Wilkinson. Have a good night, sir." I replied hurriedly with a fake, polite smile and a nod. Then, still smiling like _Barbie_, I grabbed Sherlock's arm and yanked him into my flat, slamming the door behind us. "Nosy, crotchety codger." I grumbled underneath my breath.

I looked to Sherlock, who looked slightly disgruntled by my actions as he smoothed out his black suit jacket. Sighing deeply, I scratched my ear. "All right. Fine. You win. You're my date for tonight." He smirked smugly. I held up an index finger. "However, you _cannot_ go looking like _that_." I told him, pointing to his attire.

Arching a brow, the dark-haired male glanced down at himself. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

Rolling my dark eyes, I crossed my arms over my chest. "Everything. It is a black tie event. You can't go looking like you just rolled out of bed, grabbed the closest thing to you, and pulled it on. They won't even let you into the place." I said matter-of-factly. I didn't want to sound snotty—entirely—but it was the truth.

"I'm not changing my clothes."

"Oh, yes, you are. You want to go, don't you?"

"What exactly am I supposed to change into?"

"Fortunately, Dino constantly leaves clothes here. The twit actually left a tuxedo here from last year. It might be a tad small, but you can manage for one night." I stated.

At that, before Sherlock could say anything, I went to my bedroom. I quickly rifled through my walk-in closet in the back where I kept all of the garments Dino had forgotten at my home. I pulled out the tux, smoothed it out, and then, made my way back to Sherlock, who was looking at the picture frames lining the top of my fireplace in my living room. I shoved the tuxedo into his arms.

"Change in the bathroom." I basically ordered, pointing down the hall. "Second door on the right. Don't go through my stuff in there." I had a feeling he'd do that.

He gave me a dark look at that, but—most likely reluctantly—complied. I went to my bedroom to change into my own attire, shaking my head.

* * *

><p>I honestly don't know any bloke that takes as terribly long as Sherlock did to put on that suit. I was finished dressing before him and I had to get into a very slimming and very low-cut gown, which takes up quite a bit of time, style my long, golden hair into perfect curls and then, into an up-do, and do my make-up. I had done all that plus shoes and jewelry and was standing in my living room by the front door with my jacket and clutch and Sherlock had still not come out of the bathroom.<p>

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock! We're going to be late!" I called out impatiently.

Steadily, Sherlock came out with a scowl on his pale face. He was dressed in the tux, yet his bowtie was hanging loosely and in a mess around his neck, which he was fiddling with irritably. I didn't know whether to laugh and think he was adorable—something I was definitely not going to admit out loud because the fact that I even thought it made me want to smack myself—or laugh and make fun of him.

I didn't do either. Instead, I clucked my tongue in disapproval before making my way to him. I swatted his hands away to which he glared at me for and began to do his tie properly. "You're a genius and you can't figure out a simple thing as a bowtie." I mocked wryly.

"I don't wear tuxedos nor do I go to parties. Too dull." he muttered.

"It is too dull to know that the Earth revolves around the Sun?" I countered with a cocked eyebrow.

"You read John's blog?"

"I briefly looked it over the other day, along with your website."

"Oh? And what'd you think of it?"

"…Can you really deduce all that?"

"What do you think?"

Making a face, biting my bottom lip, I peered up at him—I didn't have to tilt my head back too far as I was tall to begin with and I was now wearing heels. I opened my mouth to reply only to stop when I saw how near we were. I could see every single aspect of his mug.

His complexion was pale, but he wasn't unpleasantly pasty and he had incredible skin with a few beauty marks here and there. Sherlock's black hair consisted of unruly curls that fell into his keen, almost luminescent pale blue eyes. His cheekbones were high and well defined with a nicely chiseled jaw. He was handsome, not stereotypically handsome like I saw everyday in my profession, but handsome.

And the fact that I could tell all meant we were _way_ too close for my liking.

Thankfully, I had finished fixing the bowtie, so I stepped back trying to hide my lack of comfortableness. I grabbed his jacket, which I discovered was quite heavy, and his wool scarf and tossed them at him. "Lets just go already." I mumbled before turning on my heel and heading out of my flat.

I had a feeling tonight was going to be _interesting_.

* * *

><p>Classical and somewhat jazzy music resounded throughout the large and bright ballroom. Numerous people dressed in lovely and extravagant—and expensive, of course—fluttered about, gossiping, sucking up, drinking, eating, dancing, and etc. Glittering chandeliers hung from the high ceilings. Tables and chair circled the well-polished dance floor—a part of me was hoping some would slip because of the combination of their fancy shoes and the slippery floor—and the stage where the band resided and played. Buffet tables lined the walls packed with food and beverages and, of course, there was an open-bar.<p>

Sherlock and I, surprisingly arm in arm, entered the party about a half an hour late, but thankfully, my boss didn't seem to notice. Or if he had, he didn't make a big stink about it and was just glad I had finally arrived. After that, we were left to do what we leisured. Or at least that was what we were about to do when a familiar face with her escort came up to us.

It was a woman with wavy chocolate locks painted with blonde highlights. She had tiny amber hues, an olive complexion, full curves, and a beauty mark by her plump lips. The brunette was adorned in an emerald green halter dress with barely a back and had long slit up one leg. Attached to her arm was a burly man with perfectly tanned skin, dark, but shaven hair, one diamond earring, and vibrant green eyes. A very attractive couple, indeed.

Only problem was they weren't nearly attractive on the inside as they were on the outside. The female, who I knew from work, was snobbish, arrogant, and high-maintenance. In other words, she didn't think her shit stunk. Her date, just by first glance, seemed terribly thick; his mind was like his body, like a rock. His expression was vacant; there seemed to be nothing going on upstairs. As well, he was definitely a lecher from the way his eyes couldn't stay on one woman, on one body part.

"'ello, Elise." greeted the woman in her Greek accent.

"Chloe," I nodded using the same flat tone.

"Elise, this is Darcel Regarde. He's from _Viva Models_ in Paris, we met at a shoot in the Caribbean last year." Chloe announced, waving her hand at her date.

Darcel and I exchanged nods. "That's nice." I said.

I couldn't have cared less.

Chloe glanced over Sherlock, who looked bored already—I was right there with him. "And who is this, Elise? Is this your date? I didn't know you had a boyfriend," she said with a perplexed tilt of her head.

I almost—almost—grimaced at the very thought of being romantic with Sherlock. I barely knew the man and what I did know of him made me wary and irritated me. I was surprised I had even agreed to let him be my date. I was honestly only interested in his mind and once I had figured it out and once he had solved Fiona's murder, I couldn't have cared less if I never saw him again.

"He's Sherlock Holmes, he's just my escort for the night." I admitted.

With that, I pulled Sherlock away and headed straight for an empty table nearest to the buffet table.

"Do you want anything, Sherlock?" I gestured to the buffet table. I figured I'd ask out of courtesy once he was set at the red clothed table we were going to occupy.

"No, thank you. I don't eat while I'm working, digesting slows me down," he said, tugging at his bowtie uncomfortably.

"Oh, right," I gave a nod, starting to walk away. That was until I realized what he had said. I paused, blinked, and peered back at him. "I'm sorry, _working_? You're working?"

"Of course." was his prompt response. He was looking around with eyes like a hawk's.

"Of course?" I marched up to him and pointed an accusing finger at him suddenly feeling insulted. "You bastard." I seethed. "You used me to get in here."

Adverting his attention from the party, he regarded me. "Obviously. I told you I don't attend parties. Too dull, too predictable. You wouldn't attend these events either if you didn't have to as you clearly feel the same."

I couldn't argue with that, even though I wanted to. What he had said was true.

Sighing deeply in vexation, I plopped down on the chair across from him in a very unladylike fashion. "So you think the murderer's here then?"

"Yes. What's a better place than this for him to scope out his new prey?"

"But isn't this place too obvious?"

"Exactly." Turning to me, the male smirked. "He's just begging to get caught."

I creased my eyebrows at my temple bemused. "Why? For acknowledgment?"

"Yes, precisely."

"…I see." _How narcissistic.,_ I thought, brushing my bangs back.

After that, silence feel between us, I found myself staring at Sherlock as he looked around the room again—I had completely forgotten about the food at the buffet table calling for me. His face was impassive, but I could practically see the gears working behind his eyes. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, though.

What went on in that brain of his? How did it work? Did he already know who the murderer was? Was he studying every single person that passed by his sight? And just by that mere glance, what could he tell about them? What could he tell about me? What did he know? How did he know it?

"Shut up." Sherlock suddenly snapped.

I nearly jumped, blinking. "...I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking too much at once, its very distracting," he pointed out.

I took aback. "How'd you-" Making a face, I shook my head and rubbed my forehead.

"You're afraid of me."

I snapped my head to him to see him staring at me intently, which made my insides squirm. "I'm not afraid of you." I retorted defensively.

"You're afraid of what I potentially know about you."

"…I'm not afraid. Just apprehensive."

"Semantics."

I gnawed on my bottom lip, probably wiping my lipstick away.

I wanted to know what he knew, but at the same time, I didn't. If I found out what he had deduced, what would that solve? Would he hold anything against me? If I found out, would I be able to figure out how his mind worked? Would that allow me to finally trust this man with solving Fiona's murder, along with the others? Would that finally allow my thirst to be quenched or would that just rope me in further?

Well, like the old saying goes: "You never know until you try." Or something along those lines.

Either way, composing myself as best as possible, I said, "What do you know?"

He arched an eyebrow. "Are you sure you want to know, Larissa?"

"Try me."

I wasn't scared. I wasn't scared. I wasn't scared.

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><p><em>Thanks for reading~! Please review! :))<em>


	5. Entry 1: Part 4

****_Here's chapter five, guys! Thank you sooooooooo much for all the support so far, please keep it up. Also, thanks to **.Chaos** for giving me a way to see Sherlock Series 2, the first episode-thank you, thank you. The episode is beautiful, I can see so much Larissa and Sherlock drama in the future. Also, I want to pose a question to you fine readers. Recently, I've been contemplating, if someone had to play Larissa in the show, what actress do you think would do her justice? I was thinking Scarlett Johansson, when she's a blonde obviously. Tell me what you think. :)) Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter. If you do, please REVIEW!_

_**Disclaimer:**** I do NOT own Sherlock or Sherlock Holmes, they are owned by their rightful owners. I just own Larissa Elise, other OCs, and some plot points.**_

_**Warnings:**** Sherlock and OC romance, crude humor, swearing, gore, violence, mild sexual content, and drug and alcohol references.**_

* * *

><p><strong><span>Entry 1: Part 4<span>**

For a few moments, Sherlock studied my face then, sniffling, he shifted on his chair, leaned forward, and folded his hands on the table. "You're a lot smarter than people are aware of considering you do not show it. That's probably because in your profession high-intelligence is off-putting and people only care about your looks—then again, that's pretty much the real world in a nutshell as most people fill their heads with such rubbish. If you had put your mind to it, you probably could have done any profession that you desired, but you chose to be a model. You certainly have the looks and talent, which is obvious by your popularity, but in all retrospect, you detest your job. You don't like many of the people you work with, you don't enjoy the parties, and even though you know you're attractive, the attention you receive makes you uncomfortable. You have low self-esteem.

"Sure, you love getting into magazines, the high pay you receive, travelling for photoshoots, and the clothes, but all in all, you don't like your job. It bores you. You don't even take full advantage of such luxuries. You have a nice flat, but you could definitely rent a far more expensive one. You buy designer clothing, yet you don't purchase them from boutiques but on sale at smaller-time stores; I could tell that from the price tag you had overlooked to remove from your blouse at the café the other day.

"You keep your distance from people and have poor social skills, but you are very observant. In your own way, by just first meeting, you can tell whether a person is good or not. Or at least whether they have a personality you're going to tolerate.

"As well, you have trust and intimacy issues by the way you avoid physical contact and flinch from it. That's most likely from a trauma in your childhood. You were child abused by either one or both of your parents. As to what type of abuse, I do not know. From your lack of trust in others and skittishness towards closeness, I'd say physical with a mix of emotional. That's probably why you have a scar above your left eyebrow, which you often try to hide with your bangs, and why you're partially deaf in that ear, which is why your tilt your head your head to that side when you're speaking to someone or when they're speaking to you. Thus, also resulting in your small amount of self-confidence and that resulted in you suffering from depression. That depression, according to the light scars on your hands, caused self-mutilation, you picked at the skin consistently, and caused an eating disorder. You're very aware of food and take a lot of vitamins to make sure you get the proper nutrients, saw the pills in your bathroom cabinet. Since the scars look fairly old and that you are at a weight that you should be, perhaps still slightly under, I'd say you've been cured for about three years."

I was speechless. I felt sick to my stomach, but I was also amazed. He was brilliant. Frighteningly brilliant. He nearly knew everything about me, my deepest darkest secrets, my quirks, everything. It was stunning. It unsettled me. My heart thundered in my chest, my stomach churned, and my hands felt clammy. I didn't know what to think about all that, I didn't know how to react.

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock abruptly inquired bringing me out of my jumbled thoughts.

Well, now I knew how to react. Anger and hurt overcame everything else I was feeling. He had just said all of those private things about me, scarring things of my past that I tried to forget, and all he cared about was whether or not he got something wrong? I couldn't believe him. He didn't care if he had offended me or not. He just cared if he had gotten something wrong.

_Th-That…bastard._

Furiously, choking back burning tears and trembling, I hissed out, "You're right on all accounts except for two. My scar and my partial deafness was from car accident I was in as a small child and I wasn't physically abused, I was sexually, you insensitive asshole." I shot up, whipped around on my heel, and marched to the buffet table.

* * *

><p>It was a terrible thing to do and childish, but whatever food was on the table, I began to eat it—I was only mildly thankful that they were small portions. I desperately needed a distraction and time to calm down.<p>

After popping my tenth cocktail weenie in my mouth, I exhaled deeply through my nose and hung my head. I closed my eyes. I needed to calm down, I needed to not cry, I needed to be an intelligent, logical adult.

Getting as furious with Sherlock as I had was irrational. I had asked him to tell me what he knew about me, what he had deduced about my person. I wanted to figure out how his mind worked. I knew, deep down, that he'd somehow conclude all that. It wasn't like he told me things I didn't already knew about myself. Certainly, I had tried to leave all those things in the past, I tried to forget, but that was an impossible thing. Scars, whether they were physical or not, were scars. They couldn't be hidden, not from someone like Sherlock Holmes. I tried not to let my insecurities show, but they couldn't be helped, they, in some way or another, crept out. It was foolish to brush off who you were, especially when Sherlock Holmes was around. I had figured all that nevertheless, I was still upset. Sherlock was blunt and had little to no tact.

I was torn. A part of me wanted to go back over to Sherlock and punch him, another part of me wanted to curl up into a ball and cry, and another part of me wanted act like what he had said hadn't affected me so powerfully and sit back down, act calm and mature, and go on with the rest of the night.

I scowled, clenching my eyes. No one, no one had ever gotten under my skin so quickly and made me feel so chaotic. I hated it, yet it intrigued me. I wanted to hate him and I wanted to not be fascinated by him.

I just…I just didn't know.

"Miss. Cooper?" a high-pitched, German-accented voice called from behind me.

"Hm?" I glanced over my bare shoulder to see a tiny female, in more ways than one, standing there with a toothy grin on.

She couldn't have been more than sixteen-years-old and positively adorable. Her flaxen hairs hung to her shoulders in Shirley Temple curls. She was wearing a short, yet flowing silver and glittery off-the-shoulder dress and she had large, doe-like eyes.

"Uh, do I know you?" I asked bemused, as she appeared faintly familiar.

"Lily Brockschmidt from _FM_. I was a schoolmate of Fiona's. We met last month at Fiona's birthday party," the other blonde explained politely.

"Oh, right." I gave a curt nod in understanding.

Lily and Fiona had gone to school together and became models together, models of different companies, but still joined together. That being, Lily was a newcomer to the business as well, but she had gotten much further than Fiona had. Mind you, she was still doing small time work, but she was getting noticed.

Shortly, Lily's bright grin disappeared to be replaced by frown. "I heard about her passing. I'm terribly sorry. I knew you two were close."

I shifted uncomfortably. Had Fiona and I seemed that close? "Um, thank you. I'm sorry as well, considering you two were mates, too."

"She was a good person, it's really a shame." Lily's voice cracked a tad and I shifted again. She wasn't going to cry, was she? I wouldn't be able to handle that; I don't know how to deal with people when they're crying.

I changed the subject quickly wanting to avoid the possible situation, "Uh, yes, right. Anyway, how are you enjoying the party?"

Lily gave me an odd look and she rubbed her nose, but she responded albeit awkwardly, "Yes. Very much so. Are you?"

"…Well, it's been interesting to say the least." I mumbled, scratching my earlobe making my earrings jingles. "Do you have an escort this evening?"

She instantly brightened—I felt suddenly nostalgic as Fiona was like that. "Oh, yes. His name is Oscar Ethens. We've only been going out for a few days, but he's wonderful. He's over there by the open bar." Lily claimed, pointing an almost alabaster index finger painted black to the crowded open bar. She pointing at a handsome blonde man in a navy blue tuxedo and holding a gin and tonic.

"Oh, nice." was my simple reply. He must've been at the bar since they had arrived or was a light drinker as he was swaying slightly where he stood. He was also harassing—or hitting on from some point of views—the lovely albeit annoyed bartender.

What an ideal date. Note the sarcasm.

"Do you have a date, Miss. Cooper?" Lily asked me, turning back to me.

I bit my lip. "Uh…well…"

"Of course she does." interjected Sherlock suddenly appearing at my side. He was smiling widely, his voice was a lot lighter, his stance was looser, and he had slid his arm snugly around my waist. Stiffening, I looked up at him peculiarly—had he been drinking too?

"And I hope you don't mind if I whisk her away to dance, do you?" Sherlock kindly said to Lily.

"Oh, no, of course not!" Lily beamed brightly, giving me a wink.

Flabbergasted by the entire exchange, I couldn't resist as Sherlock, still grinning, pulled me onto the crowded dance floor. It was only when we were facing each other that I snapped out of my stupor and stepped away from his touch.

"What the Hell was that?"

"What the Hell was what?" Sherlock said, his entire demeanor returning to what I knew.

I rubbed at my face frustratingly. "You know what? Never mind." I sighed deeply. I placed my hands on my hips. "You apparently brought me out here to dance, but do you even know how to?"

He gave me a dark look. "Of course I do."

"Oh, really?" I arched an eyebrow.

"I'm from a high-class family. Its only natural that I learnt to at least waltz." he retorted.

"All right then. Prove it, detective."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock grabbed my hands and got us properly into position, much to my surprise. I blushed mildly, but didn't resist and permitted him to start fluidly leading us among the other dancers. He was a good dancer. Not a fantastic dancer as he was a tad stiff—he probably didn't like a lot of physical contact either—but still good. He knew the proper moves, he didn't step on my feet, and he didn't bump into anyone. He had definitely proved that he could dance and I'd be lying if I said that I didn't enjoy it and that I had momentarily forgotten how upset I had been with him.

However, my amusement ebbed into concerned curiosity when I finally realized why Sherlock had dragged me onto the dance floor. With every smooth spin, his head would pivot this way and that and his light hues would dance about the place as we were. He was scoping out for our murderer and going onto the dance floor had been the best way to do so as it would seem.

"What do you see?" I asked before I could stop myself, searching his face.

"Everything." he admitted softly. That he was before he mumbled, even softer, "That is my curse."

For some reason, that made my chest tighten. His tone gave nothing away nor did his expression, but his eyes told me enough. He found his talent useful and made good use of it, yet deep down, it affected him negatively and intensely—maybe from time to time or all the time, I did not know.

I was actually sympathizing with Sherlock Holmes and it was weird sensation, a bit unsettling to say the least. Nonetheless, I didn't let it distract me.

From his furrowed brows, I could see he was getting slightly frustrated. "But you're not seeing what you're looking for." I pointed out.

"Regrettably." he murmured.

Again, I spoke without really thinking about it, "Anything I can do to help?"

For a very brief moment, Sherlock peered down at me with an unreadable look. "…In a moment."

I blinked perplexed at him. _In a moment?_

I was about to ask what he meant by that, but I was stopped when someone tapped Sherlock's shoulder. Ceasing in our dance, we turned to see Chloe's date, Darcel standing there with a one-side grin upon his dark mug.

"May I cut in?" the Frenchman requested, his accent thick and creamy like chocolate.

_No_ ,was going to be my immediate answer, yet when I caught the look Sherlock was giving me, I refrained. This was how he wanted me to help. He wanted me to be bait. He wanted me to lure out the murderer. I wasn't his normal prey, but Sherlock knew better than I did. Silently, I agreed; I wasn't too keen on being bait, but I had asked if there was anything I could do to help.

Thus, I only smiled and nodded when Sherlock politely said the other male, "Of course. Be my guest."

Sherlock left as quickly as he had appeared and I was left alone with Darcel.

Oh, goodie.

The young man extended his hand to me and—reluctantly, very reluctantly—I placed my manicured hand in his. We got into position, so soon enough, we were moving about the dance floor.

He murmured something under his breath and I scowled. Then again, considering how low his hand had travelled, I didn't need to be fluent in French to know what he had said.

"I may be a blonde, but I am not a twit. I took six years of French." I grumbled, grabbing his hand to place it on a more appropriate area. I did my best to remain calm.

Darcel just grinned crookedly. "My apologies, Miss. Cooper. It is quite hard for me to control myself when I am in the presence of a beautiful female such as yourself." he claimed, using what seemed to be his most charming voice.

Well, I was not charmed.

"I don't think Chloe would be too happy if she heard you hitting on me." I pointed out callously.

The dark-haired male leaned down to my ear to whisper seductively, "What Chloe does not know won't hurt her." I grimaced. His hand slithered down to my backside again to give it a squeeze and I jumped, frightened. "How about we go somewhere more private?"

I couldn't respond. My entire body had become frozen as my stomach churned and my throat tightened. Was this man the killer? Or was he just messing around? Either way, I was rendered terrified.

"May I cut in?" spoke a kind, yet cool male's voice from behind me.

We turned to see a young blonde man standing there with a serene expression on his face. He appeared a few years older than I with chocolate eyes, rosy cheeks, and a pleasant smile. He was wearing a navy blue tuxedo.

Lily's boyfriend, Oscar. And he appeared quite sober.

"May I dance with the lady, mate?" Oscar asked of Darcel with a curious tilt of his golden head.

His question was innocent enough. However, there was something in his eyes that was hardly innocent as he looked at Darcel. Darcel must've noticed it, too as, with a wary expression, he backed away from me. "O-Of course." Darcel stammered before hurriedly walking off.

I watched him, blinking with astonishment. Then, I peered to Oscar. He smiled sweetly at me, hands folded neatly behind him. "It looked like you needed some assistance," he stated.

"O-Oh, um, yes," I gave a short nod. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome, Miss. Cooper."

"…How do you know my name?"

"Lily, of course."

"Yes, of course." I muttered hesitantly. I didn't know why, but I didn't entirely trust that answer. Then again, it was the most logical explanation.

"Shall we dance?" Oscar asked politely, outstretching his hand to me.

Just nodding, I stepped towards him and he took me into his hands.

He was an excellent dancer and he didn't inappropriately touch me as Darcel had done, but I felt that we were a bit too close. I could see every characteristic of his face, that's why. He was handsome like I had described earlier, but there was something off about his face. It seemed…fake, almost. Perhaps plastic surgery? Very good plastic surgery, as I saw no scarring, unless they were hidden under his sideburns or high collar. His eyes even appeared unnatural. Contacts, maybe? All seemed like they were done recently as his face seemed slightly swollen. And if all that was true, he shouldn't have been drinking earlier as I'm pretty when you're on painkillers/anitboitics you're not supposed to be drinking alcohol. Then, again, I smelled very little alcohol on his breath as I pointed out previously, he was quite sober to me. Not to mention, even though I knew I had never met him in my entire life, I felt like I knew him from somewhere.

Odd, very odd.

It was unnerving and I felt a certain nagging at the back of my brain. Did I know the man? Why did he get so much reconstruction done? Had he been in an accident? Did Lily know? Why did I feel like I knew Oscar? And why did I get a weird feeling in my chest around him?

My thoughts were stopped short when Oscar spoke, "Is something the matter, Miss. Cooper?"

"Who did you?' I asked bluntly.

"I beg your pardon?" he blinked.

"Who worked on your face?" I was blushing at my slip of the tongue, but it was clear I could not go back; I just had to go with it.

"Oh? Are you looking to get some work done?" Oscar said with an arched brow.

"No," I shook my head. Surprisingly, it had never crossed my mind. "I'm just curious because whoever was your surgeon did a very good job. I cannot see any scars. You have a bit swelling, so it must've been recent, but not a lot, which shows the surgeon's talent even more so."

Oscar chuckled. "You're very observant."

I shrugged. "So I've been told. When did you get it done?"

"Four or five days give or take. Maybe a week."

The nagging at the back of my brain grew stronger. "…I see." I bit my lip, contemplating whether or not it was wise to ask the next question that was lingering on the tip of my tongue. I decided that I should, "And how long have you been dating Lily?"

"A little under a week."

"Exactly?"

Oscar gave me an odd look, his dark eyes searching my face. "Maybe? Why?"

That was an awfully good question. Why did I want to know that? It wasn't any of my business, in most cases I wouldn't care, however I could not ignore the nagging of my mind. It was starting to even build up in my chest.

Was that dread I was feeling? I didn't know. Oscar seemed like a fine chap, but I had an odd feeling about him.

All I did know was that I had two potential suspects for Sherlock to review.

"Miss. Cooper?" Oscar's voice drew me back to Earth.

I snapped my head up at him. "Y-Yes?"

"Are you alright? You seem a bit…scattered," he said.

I did my best to smile. "Oh, yes, perfectly fine," I stepped back from him. "But I think its time that I return to my date. Wouldn't want him to get jealous."

Like Sherlock would get jealous.

"Of course." the blonde male chuckled heartedly. "We wouldn't want that to happen." He took my hand and pressed his lips to the back of it, causing me to stiffen and shudder. "I hope to see you again, Miss. Cooper."

I just barely managed to smile. With a tiny nod, I turned and made my way over to my table, my heart having picked up its pace within my chest cavity.

It dropped when I saw that Sherlock was gone.

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><p><em>Thanks for reading~! Please review!<em>


	6. Entry 1: Part 5

_Chapter six! Yay! Nineteen reviews for the first five chapters? That makes me feel great, so thank you all so much for all your support-please, keep it up. :)) I hope this chapter. If you do, please review. Enjoy._

**_Disclaimer: I do NOT own Sherlock or Sherlock Holmes, they are owned by their rightful owners. I just own Larissa Elise, other OCs, and some plot points._**

**_Warning: Sherlock and OC romance, crude humor, swearing, mild sexual content, gore, violence, and drug and alcohol references._**

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><p><strong><span>Entry 1: Part 5<span>**

I was going to kill him.

I was going to end his life.

The bastard just up and left.

Gritting my teeth and clenching my fists at my sides, I glared at the—now—empty table we had shared.

Did that man have any manners at all?

We weren't friends or anything (perish the thought), but Sherlock didn't even have the decency to say "goodbye"? Hell, I didn't even care why he had left; I was pretty sure he left because he had found out who the murderer was before I could tell him. All I cared about was the fact that selfishly he had just up and left without a word. I knew I wasn't very social, but I had a mild idea of social norms and saying that you were leaving suddenly to your date was one of them.

I was angry and hurt and the fact that I cared so much to be so made me even angrier.

I snatched up my purse, stomped to the coat check, basically snarled out an order to the adolescent, scrawny boy to give me my coat scaring him terribly, and then, stormed out of the party to head home without looking back.

Or at least that last was what I wanted to do.

Parked right outside of the building where the extravagant party was being held was a sleek black vehicle. Standing near was a tall, slim man dressed in a very nice suit—definitely a man with money and power. His dark hair was short and neat and his eyes were keen and intelligent. He held himself with great pride and arrogance. Oddly enough, he reminded me of someone, especially when he spotted me and gave a one-sided smirk.

"Are you Miss Elise Cooper?" he asked, his voice smooth and curt. It was very business-like.

I arched a thin eyebrow, a hand on one hip. "Depends. Who's asking?"

His smirk just widened. "I'd very much like a word with you, Miss Cooper. If you could please get into the car."

I scoffed. Who the Hell did this guy think he was? I wasn't a genius, but I was not a fool; I knew better to get into a car with a stranger. "No, thank you. I'm not in the mood to neither talk to anyone nor get into someone's car. Thanks, but no thanks." With that, I pivoted on my heel, wrapped my jacket further around me, and started down the curb—I didn't even want to take a cab I was so furious.

"Larissa,"

I immediately stopped. Ever so slowly, I looked over my shoulder at him. His smirk—if it was even possible—grew more so. "How did you-?"

"I know a great number of things about you, Miss Cooper," he claimed promptly. I stared at him suspiciously. He suddenly pulled out a small leather-bound book and flipped it open. "Elise Cooper or Larissa Elise Cooper. Twenty-five-years-old. Only child of Mrs. Ellen Walker-Cooper and Mr. Duncan Cooper. Father was killed in a car accident when you were sixteen, which you were also in, but managed to survive. Mother is still alive, currently lives with her twin sister in the country. You dropped out of school soon after the accident to become a model, which you managed to successfully accomplish in a manner of months after you recovered from your injuries. However, you suffered from severe depression and anorexia until you finally committed yourself into Sanctum rehab center at the age of nineteen and were there until you were twenty-two. The agency you work with told the public that you were on sabbatical. And-"

"All right, enough. I get it. I'll get in the bloody car." I grumbled.

"Excellent." he said, closing his tiny book. "I'd hate for a beautiful, young lady like yourself to walk all the way home by yourself at this time of night."

"I'm sure." I said dryly, strolling back to him and entering the car when he opened the door for me. I reluctantly slid in to find a lovely, dark-featured female already inside, who was intently focused on her cellphone as she texted away. The slim man climbed in soon after, closed the door behind him, and called out to the driver.

Soon, we were moving, the only sound being the other female's long nails tapping away at her phone's keyboard.

Finally, getting tired of the silence and the man's smug staring, I spoke, "What do you want from me?"

"What is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"

For the longest time, I just blinked at the man.

Then, finally, it all clicked. I now knew why he seemed so familiar to me: he was related to Sherlock, the hair, the eyes, and the way they held themselves were fairly similar. "Are you his brother or something?" I asked aloud dully.

He grinned. "You are very perceptive."

"So I've been told. And there is no relationship between him and I."

"Is that so? Because it seems that you two were on a date tonight."

I didn't know how he knew that, but then again, I didn't know how he knew all those things about me either. Either way, I knew there was no point in lying.

"It wasn't really a date so much as it was a convenience for us both. I needed someone to keep me entertained and he needed someone to get him in, so he could investigate for the case he's currently working on."

"Concerning your late friend and the other fallen models?"

"Yes."

"I see."

"Is that all?"

"Do you plan on pursuing a relationship with him?"

I nearly choked on my own spit, yet I quickly composed myself and stared steadily at him. "Despite the fact that you're related to him, I don't think that's any of your business."

"I'm just worried about him, among other things." he pointed out. From his flat tone, he didn't sound entirely worried. Then again, since he was related to Sherlock, he could be worried sick and I wouldn't be able to tell.

"That may be so, but that's not my problem. That's between you two and whatever happens between Sherlock and I is between us." I retorted. "Now, if you don't mind, it's been a long night and as much I appreciate the ride, I'd rather walk."

"You're not very afraid of me."

I was wary, but not afraid. Sort of like how I felt towards Sherlock—though, I was more angry with him than anything at that moment. However, something about this man seemed less intimidating and wasn't nearly as intriguing. I was wise to stay on my guard, though.

"Hate to break it to you, mate, but you're not very frightening."

He just grinned and called to his driver to stop the car. I unlocked the door and got out. I was about to the shut door when the male called to me again, "I'll leave you with a warning, Miss Cooper. Being around Sherlock is like being on the battlefield. You will end up wounded in more ways than one."

I stared at him long and hard before replying softly, yet firmly, "I have already been wounded from previous battles."

With that, I shut the door and watched the car drive off before letting out a breath I had no idea I had been holding.

I headed home, my arms wrapped tightly around me and my mind muddled with jumbled and frustrating thoughts.

I was officially done with the evening. My bed was desperately calling me and who was I to ignore such a tempting call?

I couldn't get to my flat sooner. I gave my landlord a very meager "hello", completely ignored the grumbling Mr. Wilkinson, and unlocked the door to my home. With a deep sigh of relief, I stripped of my pea coat, kicked off my heels, and dumped my clutch at the door—I was lazy and it was my home, I was allowed to be slovenly. I undid my hair, allowed it to cascade down my back, and didn't bother flipping on my lights as I sluggishly headed for my bedroom.

By the time I reached my bedroom, I was out of my dress. I quickly changed into my jammies and did my nightly routine before starting for my bed. However, I realized that I hadn't locked my door.

_Fan-bloody-tastic…_

I groaned and reluctantly headed back to my living room. I locked the padlocks through partially lidded eyes and with clumsy hands. It took longer than was necessary because of my drowsiness. I sighed deeply, ruffled my hair, and headed back for my bedroom.

Suddenly, before I could react, a shadowed figure appeared from God knows where and clasped an oddly smelling cloth over my mouth and nose.

Blackness consumed me.

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><p>My mouth tasted as if I swallowed a whole bunch of pennies. My head was foggy and heavy while my body felt strained and achy. My back felt cold as if I was lying on tiled flooring and, very faintly, I could hear voices. Was someone crying? Maybe screaming? Maybe both for…help maybe? I couldn't be sure; my brain was far too muddled. Why did I feel so horrible? What had happened to me?<p>

It took my mind a lot longer to figure that question out than necessary. And when it did, it was as if a bucket of icy cold water was dumped upon me.

Someone had broke into my apartment, chloroformed me, and then, kidnapped me to God knows where.

I snapped my eyes open and frantically looked around.

I was in the make-up and hair area of _FM_ modeling agency, lying on its floor in the dark. And a firm, silk scarf bound my hands. Fortunately, they were tied in front of me. Unfortunately, that was the only good thing about the situation.

The voices I had heard from earlier were much louder and much closer now that I was fully alert.

A woman was indeed screaming and crying, pleading for her life, for help and a man was angrily telling her to shut up as sounds of desperately struggled followed suit. The voices were familiar, terrifyingly familiar.

I whipped my head around—thinking about it now, I'm surprised I hadn't given myself whiplash—and gasped horrorstruck, my eyes widening.

Pinned to the floor, struggling with all her meek might, was Lily still adorned in her gown, which was ripped. Her cheeks were bruised and blood was creeping down from her nose and mouth. On top of her, using a similar scarf that bound my hands to choke her, was Oscar. Clearly, he was far stronger as he was holding her down with little effort, tightening the scarf tighter and tighter around her slender neck. However, he seemed to be getting quite annoyed with her shrieking, as he'd occasionally slap her making her cry and scream louder.

And my body just moved.

Shooting to my feet, stumbling a bit, I rushed over to them, threw myself onto Oscar's back, and flung my tied arms over his head. I pulled back, using great force to press my bound wrists harshly against his throat. Oscar made a guttural sound, grabbing my arms and stumbling back off Lily. He somehow got to his feet and began thrashing about trying his best to get me off. I relented, tightening my grip around him, even wrapping my legs around his torso.

"G-Get…off m-me, y-you bitch!" he choked out, clawing at my hands. His nails dug deep, drawing blood, yet I refused to let go.

"Lily! Get out of here! Get help!" I shouted to the sprawled and sobbing blonde adolescent.

She didn't hesitate, though she did clumsily get to her feet. As fast as she could, limping terribly, Lily bolted from the room.

I had no time to be relieved; I was too busy trying to make Oscar black out. Apparently, he was a lot stronger than I had given him credit for—then again, he had killed his share of people. It might've been adrenaline that he was running on, but so was I. I held onto him for dear life, wincing and cringing as he scratched my hands and as we stumbled into things. I would not let go, I couldn't.

Or so I had thought…

With great vigor, briskly Oscar flung us backwards and I cried out in pain as my backside met the counter of a make-up station while the back of my head smashed something made of glass—I'd find out later that it was a big light bulb. Instantly, I saw spots sputter before my vision and felt something warm and wet soak my hair. My grip loosened.

Oscar took that to his advantage because next thing I knew I was on my back, back on the floor, and he was looming over me.

"I wanted to save the best for last, but since you were so eager to jump to the head of the line, I'll indulge you. But how about we have some fun first?" I could barely make out his words, his lips moving slowly and his voice distorted. My vision was steadily blurring.

I felt hands all over me, groping and prodding. My heart leapt in trepidation. I wanted to scream, I wanted to fight back, anything, but my body would not move. Things were getting dark and I could feel my pajamas pants loosing. I sobbed. It was happening all over again. Oh, God.

_Please…_

…_D-Don't…_

_Please, st-stop…_

I was going to be raped…I was going to die…I was dying…God…wh-why?

_Please, someone….s-someone h-help…_

Suddenly, I felt Oscar's weight thrown off me, his hands leaving.

I heard voices, different one, but familiar voices. I couldn't make them out, though nor could I decipher what they were saying.

My eyelids were getting heavy, my head throbbing and hazy.

I felt arms gather me up. Faintly, I heard, "John, get her out of here!" I was being carried then, I was lying on something smooth and oddly shaped—maybe someone's lap?

I heard sirens. I heard shouting. I heard crying.

Then, I heard nothing.

I saw nothing…

* * *

><p>I didn't have to open my eyes to know where I was. The putrid and crisp smell of disinfectant and lemons was enough of a clue. I was in a hospital. I had been emitted to enough of my share of hospitals to identify the smells right away, especially since I loathed them so much.<p>

I felt absolutely horrible. My body was stiff and achy, though it didn't hurt as much as I thought it would. My head felt incredibly light, on the other hand.

Moaning softly, I shifted uncomfortably (hospital bedding was horrendous), and reached for my head, surprised that I had the strength to do so. I made a face when I felt thick material wrapped around the entire base of my head. I winced when I pressed my fingertips against one part on the back of my skull.

"Be careful, Larissa. You received seventeen stitches."

I managed to crack my eyes open, but only partially. Nevertheless, that was enough to see the blue-eyed man of dark curly hair sitting by my bedside. "O-Oh," My voice came out soft and hoarse. "N-No wonder I feel…I feel so doped up." I will hand that to hospitals; no matter how much pain you are in, they will give you the best drugs to make you not feel it. "And it's Elise." I mumbled.

I might have been fairly high, but I could've sworn I saw Sherlock give a tiny crack of smile.

"S-So…wha-what happened? Where's…L-Lily? Is sh-she okay? H-How about that bastard?" I nearly whispered.

I was amazed that Sherlock could hear me over the beeping of the heart monitor machine that I was attached to—another thing I hated about hospitals; I hated being wired up to things. "Miss Brockschmidt is fine. She's here in the hospital. A couple bruised ribs, a broken nose, and some bruising about her face, but nothing terribly serious. She should be released later today. As for Mr. Oscar Ethens or should I say, Mr. Kyle Yeager, is in jail where he rightfully belongs." the lanky male told me.

My brows furrowed, straining the bandages. "K-Kyle Yeager?"

"Yes," He gave a nod and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers. He gave a tiny sniffle. "That was his birth name before he changed it after his first murder and first plastic surgery."

"S-So it _was_…h-him," I had figured. "H-He changed his name…and…and face after every per-person…person h-he killed."

Sherlock nodded again. "Quite ingenious actually. His reasoning was childish, wanting to get revenge on beautiful women for mistreating him in his adolescence, but his methods on going about it was brilliant and since he figured out that he had figured him out, he sped up his usual routine. Logical." he said, his voice filled with amazement. There was even a smirk on his pale face.

I achieved a disgusted scowl, anger welling up in my chest. "Sherlock, p-people died. M-My friend…w-was killed. Lily was al-almost…killed. I was almost ra…" Just thinking about the word, made me shudder. "…_I _was al-almost killed." I chided.

At my words, his hawk-like eyes shifted to me, with an unreadable expression. Then, with a deep sigh, Sherlock adverted eye contact, tugging at his shirt collar. He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat.

I arched an eyebrow. Was he blushing? Was he embarrassed? No, I definitely had to very be high.

Yet, with great strain, I was able to hear Sherlock utter, "…I apologize for inconsequently putting you through that, Larissa. I did not predict things would escalate to such heights, causing you physical and…emotional harm. I did not intend to put you through…th-through something like that again. I hope you can forgive me."

I was speechless, touched. I hadn't even cared that he had called me Larissa.

Sherlock Holmes, _the _Sherlock Holmes was apologizing to me. Not only for me getting almost getting killed, but also for getting sexually assaulted, for me almost reliving terrible memories of my childhood. He was actually apologizing albeit awkwardly and with a lot of reluctance, but he was.

And you know what I did?

I did two things I rarely did and hadn't done in quite some time. I laughed and cried. _Hard._ Almost to the point where I could hardly breathe. And it just got worse when John entered. His face was priceless before he shot his partner an accusing glance. "Sherlock, what did you do to her?"

"I didn't do anything," was Sherlock's immediate defensive, looking appalled. "I apologized to her like you told me to and she…she wound up like _this_!" He motioned to me dramatically.

I just laughed and cried harder.

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><p>Smoothing her bangs back from her face, Larissa sighed deeply, looking bashful. She chewed on her bottom lip and scratched her ear.<p>

After a few moments of silence, the blonde looked back to the webcam and spoke with a small smile on her lovely face, "That was our very first case together. And despite some of the scars that it left behind-" Subconsciously, she lifted a hand and rubbed the back of her head. "—I didn't regret it nor did I regret meeting Sherlock or the kind doctor, John.

"Sure, I was frightened of what would come next if I continued to associate myself with them, particularly Sherlock, but, obviously since I'm telling you all this from within their flat, that that didn't stop me. I heeded Sherlock's brother's warning, keeping it stored in the back of my mind where is still stored to this very day, but I did not follow it and will not. I was pulled in from that moment on, maybe even earlier, like a moth to a flame.

"I continued to associate myself with Sherlock Holmes. And that meant stepping further onto the battlefield that followed him. I continued to tag along on cases with the men whether it was intentional or not."

Exhaling again, the model leaned forward, her fingers fiddling with the mouse pad until the cursor passed over the red "Stop" button on the screen. Larissa gave a grin with a tiny tilt of her head. "But those cases are for another day. Until tomorrow. See you lot then."

She pressed the button and the recording stopped.

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><p><em>Thanks for reading! Please, review! :))<em>


	7. Entry 2: Part 1

****_Twenty-five reviews so far? Omg, you guys, thank you soooooo much! I love you all, thank you, thank you! :)) Anyway, here's the next chapter and I hope you all enjoy. We now are following episodes in the first season, starting from the "Blind Banker". Please, enjoy and please, review. Much thanks._

_**Disclaimer:**** I do NOT own Sherlock or Sherlock Holmes, they are owned by their rightful owners. I just own Larissa Elise, other OCs, and some plot points.**_

_**Warnings:**** Sherlock and OC romance, crude humor, swearing, mild sexual content, gore, violence, and drug and alcohol references.**_

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><p><strong><span>Entry 2: Part 1<span>**

After the case of the murdered models or as John had titled it on his blog "Killed by Beauty"—it had a bit of an interesting ring to it—I had taken Sherlock and John's (more his than Sherlock's) advice to take some time off from work and go on holiday. Just for a little while until things calmed down in the media and until my wounds healed. The agency, especially my agent, wasn't particularly thrilled by the idea, but they understood and permitted me the time off. Thus, as quickly as I could, I booked a lovely two-week holiday in Guatemala.

I have been to the Spanish country of Central America multiple times and I_ love_ it; its absolutely beautiful, especially the Mayan ruins. I used to go there every Christmas holiday since I never spend it with my family.

Anyway, the escape had been something I desperately needed. Sure, most of the time, I tried my best not to get recognized and not scratch at my stitches (I had to cover up that small shaved spot by typing up my hair the entire time), but I enjoyed my time off—sitting hurt a little, too because of the massive bruising to my backside. I managed to darken my light tan, get well-deserved rest, get some really lovely photos of the scenery and such (John had requested this of me), go shopping for excellent prices—I bought this one pair of stunning sandals that I_ had_ to have—and etc. I did anything I wanted except drink, naturally, as I was on antibiotics. I'm not much of a drinker anyway, hardly touched the stuff.

Before long, my holiday was over and I was soon back in London.

And you know what the first I did after arriving home and unloading my luggage?

I went straight to 221B Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson, though still awestruck by the sight of me, politely greeted me and allowed me into the building. I graciously thanked her and made my way upstairs, entering the men's flat grinning at the warmth of it—I yet had time to readjust to the spring coolness of England. It was just as messy and cluttered as always. I felt like the flat was never going to change; Sherlock probably wouldn't have permitted such.

"You're back." came the low and almost velvet, yet monotone voice of Sherlock Holmes.

I turned my head to see him on a black laptop, sitting on one of the chairs by the desk. "Yeah," I gave a nod. "Just got back—hmmm—maybe two hours ago."

Arching a brow, he peered to me. "And you came here?"

I shrugged, seeing nothing odd about it. "I unloaded my luggage first."

The curly-haired male stared at me for a moment longer before humming and returning his light-colored eyes to what he previously had been doing. "How was Guatemala?"

"…How did you know I went to Guatemala?" I said, taken aback, pausing in placing my purse on the armchair by the fireplace.

The familiar sensation of anxiety welled in my chest, but that also came with the sensation of genuine curiosity as to how he had come to that deduction. Thankfully, though surprisingly, I was more curious than fretful this time. Maybe because it wasn't a deduction about me personally, just about where I had gone.

"For starters, your tan tells me you were vacationing in a place where there's a lot of sun and considering the time of year here, you must've been below the equator. Then, there's the flower in your hair." I subconsciously touched the lavender blossom tucked into the right side of my yellow hair. "Its an orchid or specifically the _Cattelya skinnerii_, which is classically from Guatemala and Costa Rica. As well, there are your new sterling silver jade sphere earrings, which are based on Mayan jewelry. And the Mayans habited Guatemala thus, you went there." he explained all the while keeping his focus on the computer screen. It looked like he was reading an email from where I was standing.

"Oh," I breathed in astonishment. I didn't think I'd ever get used to how precise his deduction skills were.

"I also saw the photographs on your _Twitter_."

I blinked repeatedly before a smile tugged at the corners of my lips before I broke out into a fit of giggles. Soon, Sherlock was laughing as well.

It was a nice laugh, actually and suited him quite nicely—of course the second I thought that I wanted to kick myself, but instead, I pushed the thought aside.

Once we calmed down, which didn't take long, I stripped off my pea coat, scarf, and gloves and placed them on the coat hanger behind the front door. I then, returned to the chair my purse was occupying to start rummaging through it. "Where's John?" I asked aloud, finally noticing that the doctor wasn't present.

"At the store, buying groceries. Why?"

"I brought back souvenirs for you both."

That piqued the consulting detective's interest as his eyebrows shot up and his eyes shifted to me. "You have gifts for us?" he inquired as if it was the oddest thing in the world.

_Is it odd that I bought them gifts?, _I thought to myself confused. Sherlock and John were mere acquaintances. However, they did save my life, saved Lily's, and had solved Fiona's case. So…yeah, that's why I had bought them souvenirs. No other reason than that. Why else would I buy them something?

There was no other reason I convinced myself.

"Don't sound so surprised. They're just "thank you" gifts for all you did for me during the case." I explained as coolly and simply as possible, fishing for their gifts.

"Is that so?" Sherlock mused, still eyeing me intently.

I shot him a look. "Stop that. Don't analyze me or you won't get your gift." I retorted wryly.

He rolled his eyes, yet he remained quiet. Satisfied, I pulled out his gift and handed it to him. "It's a Mayan mask. I didn't know exactly what to get you, but I figured you _might_ enjoy it or at least it'd keep your skull company." I admitted with a shrug.

It was true that I hadn't known if Sherlock would like the gift, but when I had seen it, I had immediately thought of him. Don't ask me why, but I had. Maybe it was because he seemed to enjoy strange things, especially if they were historic, and the mask was certainly weird looking.

Sherlock's eyes moved over it for the longest time and I shifted uncomfortably not being able to tell whether he liked it or not—how could one man be so hard to read?

Then, finally, he looked up at me with a tiny grin. "Thank you, Larissa."

"Its _Elise_," I rebuked, but it had little bite as I added softly, almost bashfully (I didn't get gratitude too often), "And you're very welcome, Sherlock."

Giving me a nod, he placed the mask aside and looked at my purse with almost childish curiosity.

"What did you get, John?" he asked shortly.

"…You are so fucking nosy."

"Not nosy. Just curious."

"Semantics."

He countered me with a dark look, which I was hardly fazed by. I just rolled my eyes—he was such a child. "If you _must_ know, I bought him a hand-woven jumper. I know a nice, old lady in Guatemala, who makes beautiful clothing. Figured since he wears jumper quite often, I'd get him one." I answered.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps and someone call out "I'm home". "Ah, speak of the devil." I said before calling out, "Hi, John!"

The short and light-haired man popped in, his hands burdened with grocery bags. "Oh, Elise. You're back. Hello." he smiled. "I'd greet you more properly, but my hands are tied."

I helped him, taking a couple groceries from him and taking them to the kitchen. We unloaded them on the kitchen counters after shoving some of Sherlock's mess aside. "How was your trip?" John politely asked, putting a couple cartons of milk in the fridge.

"Lovely. Very lovely." I replied. I didn't have to reach very high to put a box of cereal away in one of the cabinets.

"She bought you a jumper!" interjected Sherlock.

I scowled. "Way to ruin the surprise, ya prick!" I snapped. He didn't reply, but I knew he had to have rolled his eyes. I turned to apologize to John, but I stopped when I noticed him looking passed me with a perplexed expression on.

"Is that my computer?"

"Of course." Sherlock said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world—to his abnormal brain it probably was. He started typing on it, his fingers quick, clacking away.

"What?" John asked flabbergasted. He made his way passed me.

"Mine was in the bedroom."

_Well, someone's a lazy shit…_

"What? You couldn't be bothered to get up? Its password protected."

"In a manner of speaking," mumbled Sherlock dryly. "It took me less than a minute to guess yours." He threw his partner a cool look. "Not exactly Fort Knox."

Glowering, clearly offended, the former solider grabbed his laptop from the other male. "Thank you." he huffed and placed it by the armchair opposite of the one where my purse laid. He then, plopped himself down on it. Sherlock, completely composed, just stared forward, clasping his hands together.

From the kitchen, I had just watched everything.

I didn't know whether to laugh or roll my eyes. Were they always like that?

Okay, that was a silly question. I didn't know Sherlock very well, but from what I did know, he had to be a hard man to live with and John was just managing, getting steadily use to his mannerisms.

I continued to unload their groceries.

Shortly, I heard the oldest, but shortest male in the flat sigh deeply. "Need to get a job…"

"Hn," Sherlock basically scoffed. "Dull."

John glanced back at me in disbelief with his flatmate and that time, I did roll my eyes, completely agreeing. After shaking his head, the doctor took a deep breath and leaned forward, looking ready to ask something that he was reluctant to, but had to. I watched with mild interest.

"Listen," he said, clearing his throat. "Uh…if you'd be able to lend me some…" he drifted, seeing that Sherlock was still looking forward with a pensive expression on his pale mug. John's eyebrows furrowed quizzically. "…Sherlock, are you listening?"

"I need to go to the bank."

_Obviously, he wasn't…_

With that, Sherlock got up, grabbed his coat and scarf before shuffling out the door.

Quickly, after exchanging glances, John and I gathered our things and filed after him.

I'd only realize later how almost automatic my action had been, but I found that I couldn't have cared less.

* * *

><p><em>Shad Sanderson's<em> bank, as it was midday, was quite busy when the three of us entered through the revolving glass doors. People in business suits were bustling about every which way, their expensive shoes clicking in my ears against the linoleum flooring and the hum of the escalators resounded throughout the lobby. We hopped on one and the good doctor and I trailed after Sherlock as instantly made a beeline for the check-in counter of the establishment.

"Sherlock Holmes," announced the consulting detective to the petite African American woman behind the counter and computer.

She gave a curt nod and looked down at the notepad before her, scanning it quickly his name. Once she had found it, the inky-haired female smiled to us and directed us as to where we had to go. We thanked her and followed her directions to the specific office we were heading to. We were stopped by a secretary, who we confirmed our identities too and then, we were permitted into the office.

Like most offices, especially at banks, its décor was bland and dreadfully dull. The walls were white and the furniture dark. The technology in it was definitely top of the line, which it had to be in such an occupation. However, that didn't catch my eye, as I wasn't particularly tech-savvy. The only thing that had really caught my eye was the somewhat decent scenery through the large glass window behind the office's desk; once could see quite a bit of the city.

Before long, a man with a crooked grin, dark brown hair, and a beak-like nose strolled in with great pride and adorned in an expensive-looking, navy blue suit. His shoes were so shiny I could've probably seen my face in them.

He marched right up to Sherlock. "Sherlock Holmes," he greeted with great familiarity.

"Sebastian," said the opposing male with familiarity, but with hardly as much enthusiasm. They shook hands.

"How are ya, buddy?" Sebastian grabbed Sherlock's hand with both of his as he chuckled slightly. "How long has it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?"

Sherlock didn't respond to that. Instead, he jerked his head towards John and I. "These are my friends, John Watson and Larissa Cooper."

"Friends?" queried Sebastian with amused shock.

"Colleague." John corrected, shaking Sebastian's hand.

"Acquaintance," I added when the banker turned to me. "And it's _Elise_." I shot Sherlock a glare, which he blatantly ignored.

"Of course," chortled Sebastian. However, he paused and looked me over before an expression of recognition crossed his face-maybe even a hint of lust, too. "Wait, Elise Cooper? As in the model?" he asked, his eyes lighting up like the Fourth of July.

Before I could answer, Sherlock interjected briskly, "No. Same name, not the same person." The three of us looked to him oddly. He had said it with such annoyance that I became offended. What was his problem?

Nevertheless, I had no time to dwell on that as Sebastian addressed us, "Well, anyway. Please, take a seat." He made his way around the chest to big, comfy leather chair while the three of us sat. Well, since there were only two seats, John, being the gentleman that he was, permitted me to sit in the chair that Sherlock hadn't perched on. "Do you want anything? Coffee? Tea? Water?" Sebastian questioned out of courtesy.

We all shook our heads.

Giving a nod, Sebastian glanced to his secretary and dismissed her. And then, we got down to business—good, because the mystery of why we were at the bank was starting to bother me.

"You seem to be doing well." began Sherlock.

Or maybe we were there for a just a chat, which I really could not have been part of. Yet, knowing Sherlock, he wouldn't just randomly visit someone, whether they were his friend or not, without an ulterior motive.

"You've been abroad a lot."

"Well, some." Sebastian gave a shrug, looking quite pleased with himself.

He had no reason to be smug. I probably travel a lot more than he does.

Not that I was bragging or anything…

…_Anyway_…

"Been all around the world, twice, in one month." claimed Sherlock.

While Sebastian snickered, John and I looked to our companion with interest. Sherlock had made another deduction out of the blue—and since it wasn't towards me, I was more than eager to find out how he had concluded that.

"Right," the banker said through his laughter, pointing an accusing finger at the detective. "You're doing that thing." Sebastian regarded John and I. "We were at uni together. This guy here had a trick he used to do."

_He's not a magician, you halfwit.,_ I thought to myself indignantly.

"Its not a trick." commented Sherlock, looking a little dismayed by the statement.

As if he was ignoring Sherlock, which had been possible, Sebastian went on, "He could just look at you and know your whole life story."

"Yep," nodded John. "I've seen him do it." Unlike Sebastian, who sounded mocking, the doctor sounded admiring.

"Seen him do it, too." My voice was impassive. Didn't want to inflate Sherlock's ego too much; he was already smirking from his partner's tone.

"How do you put up with it? We couldn't stand him." Sebastian snorted. "You'd come down to breakfast hall and this freak would know you had been shagging the previous night."

At that man's words, I did something I thought would _never_ do.

I defended Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you for reading~! Please review!<em>


	8. Entry 2: Part 2

****_I am so sorry for the delay, I've been so busy with things, especially for my last semester at my community college-I can't wait to graduate and transfer. Anyway, here is the newest and I hope you all enjoy-its the longest chapter so far to make up for the delay. Thank you all sooooooooooo much for the support; I love all of your kind words. :)) Please, enjoy and please, keep up the wonderful reviews._

_**Disclaimer:**** I do NOT own Sherlock (BBC), it is owned by its rightful owners. I just own Larissa Elise, other OCs, and some plot points.**_

_**Warnings:**** Sherlock and OC romance, crude humor, swearing, gore, violence, mild sexual content, and drug and alcohol references.**_

* * *

><p><strong><span>Entry 2: Part 2<span>**

If you had asked me then why I had defended Sherlock, I would not have been able to tell you. Most likely, I would've told you to mind your own bloody business and to piss off. It wouldn't be out of the sheer fact that I was trying to be rude, it would've been because I was embarrassed.

Sherlock wasn't my lover. Sherlock wasn't my friend. He was just barely an acquaintance and despite how eternally grateful I was that he had saved my life, among other things, more often than not, I couldn't stand the man.

Yet, there I was defending him.

See, I have this very odd quirk. I insulted people all the time and if someone insulted me or someone else I knew, I didn't particularly care all that much. It was just an immature way of defending yourself. However, there is one insult that I cannot and will not ever tolerate. And that was the word "freak". To me it was one of the worst things you could call someone. Don't ask me why, but it is the truth. Maybe it was because as a child I had been called that more often than I'd like to share. I don't know, but I digress…

At Sebastian's words, at the word "freak", my quirk took over and compulsively I spoke, my voice filled with venom, "Who the Hell do you think you are? You clearly summoned Sherlock here to help, but the only thing you've been doing since we've arrived is insult him. He didn't have to come here, I'm sure he's got plenty of other things to do than sit here and take your petty abuse, yet here he is. So the least you can do, you snobby bastard, is pay him some bloody respect. Otherwise, I'd suggest you hold your fucking tongue, got it?"

It was only when a deafening silence filled the office and I had three pairs of wide eyes staring at me in shock did I realize I had spoken at all.

Instantly, blood rushed to my face from sheer, downright embarrassment that I had defended a man I hardly knew and hardly tolerated. However, no matter how much I denied it then, it felt right saying that in defense of Sherlock. I had done my best at that time to convince myself that I had done it just because I couldn't stand anyone using that word on anyone.

Either way, I was so flustered—not to mention, confused—by my actions that I hung my head and pretended that my holey, washed out skinny jeans were suddenly very interesting. I ignored the looks from everyone, John especially, and I tuned out the rest of the—awkward—conversation between Sherlock and Sebastian after that.

I only tuned back into the conversation when we all left Sebastian's—the prat's—office, so he could finally explain to us why he had asked Sherlock to _Sad Sanderson's_ bank. And I was glad I began listening again because the mystery Sebastian had bestowed upon us was certainly a doozy.

Apparently, late last night—around 11: 30ish—someone had broken into the bank and had vandalized someone's office with yellow spray paint, drawing on one of the walls and on the portrait of a bald, middle-aged male with a horse brush mustache-by the way, who thought those were a good idea?

That wasn't what made this case such a doozy, though. The elements that made it so interesting and definitely something up Sherlock's alley were that the person who vandalized the office drew very peculiar designs—two lines and an odd squiggle—and had broke into the office without using any doors as the security system wasn't set off and had done all this within a single minute. Oh, and the culprit was not caught on the security cameras.

Yeah, the case was definitely something that piqued Sherlock Holmes' vast mind.

Thus, when he was given the time to investigate on his own accord, Sherlock went off like an excited child left on his own in a candy store.

That being, John and I were watching our eccentric companion as he flounced about the cubicles and offices. He had taken pictures with his _Blackberry_ of the spray paint. He had even gone out onto the landing and looked about. Now, he was bobbing and weaving, bouncing up and down, twirling this way and that and those around him, even though he was paying absolutely no attention to them, were watching him as if he was barmy—no doubt he was in some fashion or another.

"So…?" the fair-haired doctor suddenly spoke from my right.

Arching a brow, I idly glanced to him—reluctantly—tearing my attention away from the consulting detective. "So _what_?" I answered dully.

"Are we going to talk about what happened in Sebastian's office or are we just going to pretend it didn't happen?"

"…I'd prefer the latter."

John turned his hazel eyes to me for a moment to which I gave him a warning look and he gazed back to Sherlock. "Fair enough," he muttered. "But you know he won't do so."

An inkling of dread welled in my chest, but I calmly replied, scratching my ear, "Maybe, but look at him, John, he's too wrapped up in this case to give a flying fuck."

"He'll just bring it up afterwards."

"Not if you keep bringing it up."

"I don't see why you're getting so defensive, Elise."

"I'm _not_ being defensive." I retorted through gritted teeth. "Will you just drop it?"

"All I'm saying is that for someone who acts like she doesn't particularly care for anyone, especially for Sherlock, what you did was awfully kind. Crude, but kind."

I deadpanned, my right eye twitching. "John, I respect you for serving our country and dealing with Sherlock on a daily basis, God knows that's a harder task than raiding Afghanistan, but I will not hesitate to punch you if you do not drop it."

And he just promptly chuckled, smirking crookedly and shaking his head. Glaring, I opened my mouth to snap, asking as to what he found so damn humorous, but stopped when Sherlock approached us. There was a particular glint in his bright eyes—he had found something or was on the verge of finding something; I had seen it a lot on the last case. "I am done here, we are free to leave." he announced boldly.

With that and a dramatic swish of his coat, he left. John and I quickly followed.

We took the elevators down and headed straight for the escalators to the front doors. As we traveled, John spoke and thankfully, it had nothing to do with me, "Two trips around the world this month. You didn't ask his secretary, you just said that to irritate him."

Had he really said that?

I felt heat in my cheeks again.

Obviously, my defending Sherlock had proven to be even more foolish than I had previously thought. Sherlock could handle himself—not that I didn't think he couldn't—so I could've spared myself quite a lot of embarrassment. I was such a twit. I really needed to learn how to think before I spoke.

Either way, at John's words, Sherlock smiled smugly. It was quick, like all his smiles, but it had been apparent. You could practically see the pride forming in his chest.

"How did you know?" John inquired, the three of us descending steadily on the escalators.

"Saw his watch." Sherlock stated.

John and I exchanged curious looks. "His watch?" I asked for the both of us. "What about it? Wrong date or something?"

Sherlock peered back at me for a moment with an arched brow—why, I had no idea—then, nodded curtly. "Yes. Right time, wrong date. Said two days ago. Crossed the dateline twice, but didn't alter it."

"Okay. So within a month? How'd you deduce that?" said the shorter, older male.

"New Breitling. Only came out this month," said the taller and younger one smoothly.

Once again, John and I exchanged looks, that time impressed ones. Sherlock, despite his _many_ flaws, was nothing short of amazing when it came to his deduction skills and perception.

"All right. What about the graffiti?" I queried interestedly while the three of us strolled towards the glass, swiveling doors.

"It was a message," the dark-haired fellow claimed. "Someone at the bank, among the trading floors. Thus, we must find the intended recipient and-"

"They'll lead us to the person who sent it," said John and I in unison.

"Obviously." Sherlock concurred.

"Well, there's three hundred people up there." the good doctor pointed out. "Whom was it meant for?"

"Pillars,"

"…_What?_"

"Pillars screen the area. There's only a few places where you can see that graffiti properly. That narrows the field down considerably and of course the message was left at a 11:34pm last night. That tells us a lot."

We exited the building, listening intently to the consulting detective riveting, if not slightly ambiguous, explanation.

"Does it?"

"Traders come in at all hours. Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for someone who came in at midnight. Not many Van Coon's in the phonebook." Sherlock held up a nametag with the name "Edward Van Coon" upon it. That was before he shouted and held out a hand, "Taxi!"

* * *

><p>After looking up Edward Van Coon in the phonebook, the three of us headed to the luxurious apartment complex where he lived. Immediately, Sherlock marched up to the large panel where numerous buzzers were with inhabitants written. He quickly found Van Coon's name and pressed the button to his flat.<p>

There came no reply.

Sherlock pressed it again.

Same thing.

"What now?" John asked with a small sigh while his partner stepped back and peered up the length of the building. "Sit here and wait until he comes back?"

I was really hoping that was not an option. It was a bit nippy out.

Thankfully, it wasn't.

"Just moved in," Sherlock suddenly said to us. We looked at him bemused. Thus, he pointed with his leather gloved finger at another label, pointing at the buzzer to the flat above Van Coon's. It read "Wintle". "New label." he pointed out.

"Could've just replaced it." John countered with a shrug.

Sherlock pressed the buzzer and glanced to John. "No one ever does that."

I couldn't help but wholly agree. Usually, people were too lazy to do such tedious tasks. I was one such person; I hadn't changed my label in years—it was probably faded and wrinkled at that point.

Soon, a soft female voice resounded on the speaker, "_Hello_?"

And Sherlock spoke in a way that I had only heard use. In a lighthearted voice that was a higher octave and contained more emotion than usual, he said, "Hi. Um, I live in the flat just below you, I-I don't think we've met."

John and I looked to each other and shrugged.

"_No, I've just moved in._"

"Actually, I've just locked my keys in my flat," Sherlock admitted, feigning embarrassment.

"_Want me to buzz you in?_" Wintle offered on the other end politely.

"Yeah," Then, as quickly as it had come, his "normal people" voice vanished to be replaced with Sherlock's usual deep monotone one. "And can I use your balcony?"

John deadpanned while I smacked a palm to my forehead.

There was no way we were going to be let in now…

* * *

><p>Much to my <em>great<em> surprise, we were permitted entrance into the building; Sherlock was even permitted to use the _very _confused Miss Wintle's balcony.

However, when Sherlock had _finally_ allowed John and I entry into Mr. Van Coon's flat—he had ignored our impatient calls to let us in—I had wished that we hadn't allowed into the building. And that was because, much to everyone's dismay, Mr. Van Coon was dead upon his King-sized bed with a bloody hole in his right temple and a gun laying beside his head.

I instantly felt sick to my stomach and briskly retreated to the furthest corner of the room, the hole in his head making me squeamish. I could handle gore (I actually a good horror film every now and then), but seeing a dead body, especially when you can see into his head was something I could not handle-I don't know why, but it brought up memories of Fiona's death. I'm sure seeing dead bodies, even to this day, is something I will never, ever get used to. My stomach doesn't take it very well.

Sherlock had already called the police, which were now fluttering about and he was examining the body alongside them. John, much to my embarrassment, was lingering beside me, looking at me with deep concern. I did my best to ignore it while staring down at my furry, brown boots, trying to calm my churning stomach—I didn't like people fussing over me.

"Are you alright?" John asked me softly, placing a hand on my slender shoulder. I stiffened at his touch, but responded with a numb nod. I doubt that had been convincing, yet the doctor was smart enough to not pry. Instead, he turned his attention to his flatmate. "Do you think he had possibly loss a lot of money? Suicide is pretty common among city boys." John stated.

"Don't know if it was a suicide," Sherlock responded calmly before heading over to the opened suitcase beside the night table.

"Oh, c'mon," John argued, shaking his head. "The door was locked from the inside. You had to climb down the balcony."

It seemed Sherlock had ignored his partner's words as he knelt before the messy suitcase and was rummaging through it with latex gloves on. "He was gone fore three days…judging by the laundry." he muttered. He then rose to his full, tall height. He turned his hawk-like, pale blue hues to John and I. "Look at the case," he ordered with slight irritation. "There was something tightly packed inside it."

John looked almost repulsed by the idea. "Thanks. I'll take your word for it, and I'm sure Elise does, too."

Sherlock's brows furrowed. "Problem?" he asked coyly.

"Yeah, I'm not desperate to rummage through some bloke's dirty underwear," John confessed curtly then, peered to me and frowned. His hand that was still on my shoulder gave it a comforting squeeze. "And if you haven't noticed, Elise doesn't seem particularly okay with being here with a dead body, let alone okay enough to go through his luggage."

I wasn't entirely comfortable with John touching me, but I did appreciate his concern.

Besides, I was more at ease with the former soldier's touch than I was when Sherlock peered to me with an unreadable expression at John's words. I didn't know why, but it made my insides squirm and I casted my gaze downward back at my shoes.

"Those symbols at the bank," Sherlock spoke again, returning to the matter at hand. "The graffiti. Why were they put there?"

He was asking us. I knew he already knew the answer, but I figured he did that to see if anyone but him knew; to test others' intelligence.

"Some sort of code?" said John.

"Obviously," concurred Sherlock, moving to the body and analyzing it from the feet up closely. "Why were they painted? Why communicate that way? Why not use email? Larissa?"

"Its E-Elise, Sher-Sherlock," I took a deep breath to calm my stomach so I didn't vomit and spoke again, cursing when it shook, "And m-maybe, he wasn't answering? Knew who it was f-from…and ig-ignored it?"

"Oh, good," Sherlock cheered dully, prodding at Van Coon's body. "You two follow."

"We're just guessing, Sherlock, we don't actually understand." I pointed out softly, speaking for John and myself. Aforementioned doctor corresponded with a nod.

"What kind of a message would someone try to avoid? Like the ones you were looking at earlier this morning, John?"

John and I glanced to one another.

"You mean the bills?"

I grimaced again and looked away, making John give my shoulder another squeeze when Sherlock reached into Van Coon's parted mouth and pulled something out with a sickening wet noise. "Yes," Sherlock murmured. It was something black, looking like folded paper. "He was being threatened." He placed it in a plastic bag.

Then, a man, looking around my age appeared in clean-cut clothes and stern look on his face. Truthfully, he looked too young to look so serious.

Instantly, Sherlock went up to him to greet him, "Ah, Sergeant. We hadn't met. I'm-" He held out his hand to him.

"Yeah, I know who you are," the other male cut him off rudely. "And I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence."

Confusion and a small amount of surprise crossed Sherlock's pale face, lowering his hand. John and I looked to each other, our surprise very evident; Sherlock had just met the man and he already hated him—that had to be a record.

Nevertheless, if Sherlock was offended, he didn't show it as his emotionless mask returned and he calmly handed the plastic bag with the black item to the police officer. "I phoned Lestrade," he said once the policeman snatched the bag from him. "Is he on his way?"

"He busy, I'm in charge, and it isn't Sergeant, its Detective Inspector, Dimock." he retorted.

_Well, someone's touchy…_

With that, Dimock turned on his heel and marched out of the room. Sherlock turned to us with an arched brow and we shrugged, having no idea what that was about, as we honestly didn't. Either way, the three of us followed the Detective Inspector out of the bedroom—I more willingly than anyone else—into the living room.

"We're obviously looking at a suicide." Dimock stated to one of the men on the forensics team and handed him the plastic bag.

"That does seem to be the best explanation of all the facts," agreed John.

"_Wrong_," Sherlock swiftly said with exasperation to his voice. Everyone looked to him. "Its _one_ possible explanation to _some_ of the facts." He looked to Dimock intensely. "You've got a solution that you like, but you're choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."

"Like?" Dimock rebuked wryly.

"The wound's on the right side of his head," Sherlock started off.

"And?"

"Van Coon was left-handed." With cynicism dripping from his voice, Sherlock said as he twisted his left arm this way and that about the right side of his head with his fingers looking like a gun, "Requires quite of a contortion."

"Left-handed?" scoffed Dimock, not the least bit amuse—I didn't blame him, Sherlock was now probably just showing off.

"I'm surprised you didn't notice. All you have to do is look around his flat. Look at the coffee table on the left-hand side, coffee mug handle pointing to the left, power sockets on the left are being used, pen and paper on the left-hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and jotted down notes with his left," Sherlock pointed to everything he mentioned as he spoke about each of his observations. "What me to go on?" he said, haughtiness hinted in his voice.

"No, I think you've covered everything." John interjected in reproach.

"Might as well." Sherlock said swiftly, blatantly ignoring his friend. John and I rolled our eyes—he was definitely showing off now. "I'm at the bottom of the list anyway. There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side because he used it to butter the bread with his left hand." He gave Dimock a dark look, annoyed by how ignorant the man had been. "Its very difficult for a left-handed man to shoot himself in the right side of his head. Thus, the conclusion is someone broke in here and murdered him. _Only_ explanation of _all_ the facts."

"But the gun-"

"He was waiting for the killer. He'd been threatened."

"What?"

"Today, at the bank," John said with a lot more kindness than Sherlock. "There was a warning."

"He fired a shot," Sherlock stated, shrugging on his coat and tying his scarf. "When his attacker came in." He yanked on his thick gloves.

"And the bullet?" Dimock asked, his tone riddled with disbelief.

"Through the open window."

"Oh, come on. What are the chances of that?"

"When do you think you'll get the ballistics report? The bullet in his brain wasn't far from the gun, I guarantee it."

"…But if his door was locked from the inside, how'd the killer get in?"

"Good," Sherlock smirked. "You're finally asking the _right_ questions."

He turned and left without another word leaving John and I standing there albeit awkwardly with the Detective Inspector.

Rolling my eyes with a deep sigh, I gave the man a small nod before heading out—I hated when Sherlock just up and left. John, who had far more manners than Sherlock and I, smiled—uneasily—and waved before following after us.

"Now what?" John asked once the three of us were outside.

"We speak to Sebastian." Sherlock said vaguely, extending his hand to hail a cab.

"…I see," John nodded, probably figuring he'd find out what they were going to Sebastian for when they got there. He obviously had learned or was learning to deal with his flatmate's cryptic ways.

The taxi soon pulled up and Sherlock, telling the driver where he wanted to go, and John got in. I did not, though. The men noticed and looked to me oddly. "Are you coming?" queried Sherlock.

"No," I shook my head. I glanced down at my watch. "I was supposed to be at work an hour ago and tell them I had returned from holiday. I promised that the day I got home, I'd return to work considering how many days I already took off. Sorry." I had been so wrapped up in the newest case, the new thrill that I had forgotten about my job. I had only remembered when I came down from the high when I saw Van Coon's dead body—it put quite a damper on my mood.

"Oh. All right then." Sherlock shrugged carelessly. "Goodbye then."

I scowled at his nonchalance and John must've noticed because kindly he said, "I'll text you if we find anything else, okay?"

"Right. Thanks." I said to him politely, glaring at Sherlock, who was now impatiently waiting for us to stop talking so he could go on with his case—what a prick. "I should be out in a couple of hours, at the most. Text me where you'll be."

John nodded and with that, he closed the door and the cab drove off.

I sighed deeply, scratching my ear.

Why did I suddenly feel so disappointed?

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><p><em>Thank you so much for reading~! Please, review!<em>


	9. Entry 2: Part 3

****_Hello, all. Well, here's the next chapter. Thank you so far for all the support and sorry if I haven't replied back to the most recent reviews; I will get to you, please be patient. Anyway, sorry if this chapter is short and not terribly exciting, but there's a really cute Sherlock/Larissa moment, so please enjoy. :)) _

_**Disclaimer:**** I do NOT own Sherlock (BBC), it is rightfully owned by Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss. All I own is Larissa Elise, all other OCs, and some plot points.**_

_**Warnings:**** Sherlock and OC romance, crude humor, swearing, gore, violence, mild sexual content, and drug and alcohol references.**_

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><p><strong><span>Entry 2: Part 3<span>**

"_Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!_ Go through it for me one more time, Elise."

I rolled my eyes and sighed deeply.

This was the third time I had to explain what had happened that morning to Dino as he made me up.

Much to my dismay, the minute I had arrived at _Storm_, my agent demanded that I do a photoshoot today as Chloe had yet arrived for it; according to Dino, she was having a bit of domestic with Darcel—I could only imagine why. Thankfully, John hadn't texted me that anything had changed in the case; he did tell me that Sebastian had acted like he couldn't have cared less that Van Coon had been killed-I had called it that he was a twat. Though, for some reason, I didn't like the fact that I wasn't there to assist them.

"Dino, I don't enjoy repeating myself." I pointed out in exasperation.

"Close your eyes," the Latino instructed, holding up his eye shadow brush and palate. I complied and soon I felt the soft bristles sweep across my lid. "I know, love, I'm sorry, but I just cannot believe that you're working on a murder case. I mean, that's _astounding_."

"You make it sound like its some grand adventure." I muttered with a small scoff.

"_No_. _You_ made it sound like its some grand adventure."

I snapped my dark blue eyes open with furrowed brows. "…I beg your pardon?"

My pretty make-up artist gave me a knowing smirk. He leaned against the make-up table counter behind him. "Its just the way you spoke about it. You sounded so elated; there was even an adorable, happy twinkle in your gorgeous eyes. Especially when you're talking about that handsome bloke Holmes, though he's sound like kinda prick."

"That's because he is," I retorted. "And I didn't sound elated, especially when talking about him. I was describing a murder for Christ's sake, Dino. I'm not psychotic."

The smirk on his tan mug increased. "There's no need to get so defensive, honey," he teased, waving his brush around.

He was the second person to say that to me today. I was _not_ being defensive. I wasn't. What could I possibly be defensive about?

"I'm not being defensive." I said a calmly as possible.

"Whatever ya say, love."

"…Stop being obnoxious and do my fucking makeup before my agent has a bitch fit."

Dino chuckled heartedly, more than use to my bluntness at that point. "Yes, ma'am." He mock saluted before leaning forward to finish my other eyelid with the smoky hue.

"Are you going to continue helping them?" he asked after a moment, now working on my top liner.

"I thought we were done talking about this."

"Its just a simple question, Elise."

Inwardly, I groaned.

Maybe I was being defensive. Then again, I always spoke to people like that (at least, from my point of view), so maybe I wasn't. Though, ever since the "incident"—that was what I had dubbed it as—I had been slightly on edge and seeing Van Coon's dead body hadn't helped any.

"Yes."

"…What?" Dino blinked dumbly, pausing in using the dark gray eyeliner.

"Yes," I repeated firmly. "I'm going to continue helping them."

"Really? Look up." He returned to doing my bottom liner. I did as I was told.

"Yes. I don't see why not."

"Except dead bodies make you want to vomit and so does this Holmes bloke as it would seem."

"He and John saved my life." I rejoined, thinking that that would explain my decision.

Dino locked eyes with me, suddenly looking serious, which was something he rarely was. "That doesn't mean you need to repay them by sticking your neck out for them or getting involved in a murder. You could just give them a 'thank you' card or something," he argued.

I nearly laughed at the imagery of handing Sherlock a flimsy 'thank you' card from _Hallmark_ and him staring at me as if I was some kind of loon; he'd probably dispose of it immediately. John would definitely be more grateful.

Nevertheless, I saw Dino's point.

Most people when someone saved their life, thanked them and probably went on with their lives never seeing their saviors—that was certainly an odd word to associate Sherlock with—ever again. Yet there I was, tagging along and helping them with a case. I was just a normal civilian, a simple model, not a detective—John wasn't either, but he was Sherlock's partner. I should have been minding my own business.

But I couldn't…

"Look, Dino," I mumbled softly, but boldly. "I can see where you're coming from, but at the moment, Sherlock and John saving my life is the only reasoning I have to explain why I'm helping out. I'm sure there's more to it, but I don't the patience or the want to figure it out completely. You know me, I act before I think. I act on instincts. This feels right so I am going to go with it. I'm sorry if that makes little to no sense, but it is what it is."

For a few moments, my companion stared at me, searching my face until I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. He grinned and kissed my cheek, causing me to stiffen and blush. "Okay, love. Whatever makes you happy," Then, he grew grave again, but briefly, "But be careful. Don't get so wrapped up in something that you'll never be able to undo."

"Dino, this is me we're talking about here. That'll never happen."

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><p>John didn't text me for the rest of the day and even though I was disappointed, a part of me was also thankful. That meant I got to sleep the rest of the day away after my photoshoot; I was beginning to feel jetlagged and the day's events had rendered me exhausted.<p>

Thus, when I woke up the next morning, I felt refreshed and ready for anything. I did my usual morning routine before heading downstairs to the building's lobby where the mailboxes were. I went to mine, unlocked it, and pulled out my mail from yesterday and today. Most of it contained rubbish (i.e. bills), but the newspaper was anything but, especially when one article caught my immediate attention.

'_Ghostly killer leaves a mystery for police_' was the article's title. Quickly, my eyes scanned over the contents, a small gasp escaping me.

I raced back up to my flat, grabbed my purse to which the newspaper was stuffed into, yanked on a pair of shoes, shrugged on my jacket, tied my scarf, and then, raced back down to the lobby and out of the building to hail a taxi. I gave Sherlock and John's address and soon, the cab was off towards 221B Baker Street.

Once we arrived, I nearly threw the driver's fare at him and went inside. I gave Mrs. Hudson a rushed greeting and swiftly made my way upstairs.

Much to my surprise, Sherlock was the only one home and was staring intently at the far left wall where there was a mirror covered with pictures and such concerning the most recent case. I marched up to him and shoved the newspaper in his face feeling that that would be the only way to bring him back to Earth.

And it was.

He blinked and gazed up at me—he was sitting crouched on one of the armchairs—with an irritable look. "Did you read today's newspaper?" was all I said calmly.

The dark-haired male pushed my hand aside and said, "You mean the article about Brian Lukis, who was killed by a murderer that can walked through walls? Yes, I've read it." When I arched an eyebrow, Sherlock jerked his head to the open laptop on the desk. I turned to it, seeing the same headline was on the screen.

"Oh," I muttered after a moment, lowering the newspaper in my hand. "Do you think it's the same killer?" I asked, tossing the paper aside and starting to take off my extra layers.

The consulting detective scoffed. "I don't think, I know."

I shot him a look. "All right, don't get snooty." I spat earning a dark expression. I returned the look evenly except softened momentarily when I noticed dark lines beneath his eyes.

Furrowing my brows, I frowned a little. "Did you get any sleep last night, Sherlock?" I questioned softly. Briskly, I pushed the thought of "why the Hell do I care?" away from my mind.

"Boring."

I deadpanned. "How is sleep _boring_? Everyone needs to sleep."

"I slept a couple hours yesterday," he admitted, eyes focusing on the pictures and information above the fireplace again.

"People are supposed to sleep at least eight hours." I pointed out, my hands on my hips.

Again, the thought of "why the Hell do I care?" crossed my mind and instantly I shoved it away.

"Exactly."

"_Every day_. Not every couple of weeks."

Sherlock shrugged, never tearing his pale optics from his case findings.

Sighing deeply, I just shook my head, brushing my bangs from my face-why did I bother with this man?

"Coffee?" I finally offered.

"Black, please." he mumbled, his voice muffled by his laced hands.

Just nodding, I made my way to the kitchen. Immediately, my face contorted in disgust at the rubbish—most likely all Sherlock's—that was about. Then, rolling my eyes, I started working on making us both coffee after I managed to find everything I needed—it was a good thing that John had gone grocery shopping yesterday.

I was just pouring the now ready coffee into two separate mugs when Sherlock piped up, "Why did you do it?"

I arched an eyebrow and placed the pot gently in the coffeemaker. "Why did I do _what_?" I inquired leisurely, grabbing the milk and sugar for my coffee—I liked mine light and sweet.

"Come to my defense in Sebastian's office yesterday."

Nearly dropping the carton of milk, I frantically caught it before it crashed to the floor and then, with inflamed cheeks, I hesitantly looked to the living room. Sherlock was staring right back at me. Blushing harder, I looked back to the coffee and cleared my throat, continuing to poor the dairy product. "…I-I don't see h-how…how that has any relevance to the c-case." I barely managed to choke out. I wanted to kick myself for sounding like a child, who got caught by their parents with their hand in the cookie jar before supper. I hadn't even acted that way when John had brought it up.

"That doesn't answer my inquiry, Larissa."

At my real first name, my heart shimmered down and I scowled—I was still blushing, though. "Don't call me that, Sherlock. Its _Elise_, for the hundredth time." I rebuked, stirring sugar into my coffee.

"I'd like an answer."

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

"_Why?_" I asked, getting as irritable as he as I handed him hot beverage.

"Because I want an answer," he replied stubbornly.

"It doesn't matter why I did it, Sherlock. It has nothing to do with this case." I claimed before sitting my drink.

"_Larissa,_"

"_Elise."_

Sherlock just glared at me. I returned it until my resolve wavered, his, unfortunately, being far stronger. There was no point in trying to avoid the subject. It was clear, just as John had said, that Sherlock was no going to drop it and lying was out of the question since he'd be able to see through it—clever bastard.

That being, with a defeated sigh, I situated myself in John's usual recliner. "Look," I began reluctantly, putting my mug aside. I tried staring Sherlock, who was watching me very closely, in the eye, but found that I could not, so I gazed down at my hands. "I cannot stand the word "freak" and I cannot stand anyone calling another person such. It's a quirk I have thus, I defended you. Sebastian had no right calling you a "freak". You are a lot of things, Sherlock, and I mean _a lot_," He glowered at me for that. "But you are not a freak. It's not like you asked for a talent such as yours. You were born this way and that makes it no way your fault nor makes you a freak." I may have been dreadfully embarrassed as I said all that, but I meant every word. I wasn't particularly fond of Sherlock, but I did not think he was a freak because of how his mind worked. His mind was an amazing thing, maybe even a curse to him too, but it was amazing.

I sat back, feeling suddenly exhausted, and sipped my drink. "There. Happy? You got your bloody answer." I grumbled.

For the longest time, Sherlock was silent, yet I could feel his eyes on me and it made my insides squirm and blood creep up to my face. Eventually, I snapped, turning my head to glare at him, "Well, say something already!" Or at least that was what I was going to yell, but I stopped when I noticed an almost tender look in his eyes. It was almost as if the icy wall in him had melted.

"Thank you, Larissa." he finally said softly, graciously. There was even a tiny smile on his face.

And I blushed, my heart sputtering in my chest. "Um…y-you're wel-welcome…" I ultimately managed to breathe out.

His grin grew, even just the slightest and then, suddenly, the ice wall was back up as we both heard footsteps approaching, ascending the stairs.

John was home.

And my heart dropped, for some reason or another, aching.

What the bloody Hell was wrong with me?

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><p><em>Thanks for reading~! Please, review!<em>


	10. Entry 2: Part 4

****_Sorry for the late update, everyone, I've been really busy with my first week of my last semester at my community college. Anyway, here's the tenth chapter and I hope you all enjoy. Thank you everyone who has reviewed, subscribed, favored, and so on for this story so far. 51 reviews? That's amazing. Thank you all sooooooooo much and thank you for being so patient. Hope you all enjoy._

_**Disclaimer: I do NOT own Sherlock (BBC), it is rightfully own by Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss. All I own is Larissa, other OCs, and some plot points.**_

_**Warnings: Sherlock and OC romance, crude humor, swearing, mild sexual content, gore, violence, and drug and alcohol references.**_

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><p><strong><span>Entry 2: Part 4<span>**

"I _said _'could you pass me a pen?'" Sherlock suddenly said distractedly as his flatmate entered.

That immediately caused my muddled emotions to evaporate to be replaced with confusion. John must've shared it with me because he glanced to me with puzzled brows as he came up beside my chair from through the kitchen. I gave him a coy shrug, indicating that I had no idea what in the world the consulting detective was talking about.

"Wha—When?" John asked.

"About an hour ago." murmured Sherlock. Again, John and I exchanged bemused looks. Clearly, John had no idea what Sherlock was talking about and I hadn't heard, since I arrived, Sherlock asking for a pen.

The doctor gave a huge frustrated sigh, shaking his light-haired head. "Guess you didn't notice I had got out then," he mumbled, reaching for a pen on the table beside me. Without looking, John tossed it Sherlock and in the same fashion, the dark-haired male caught it.

That was something that had been quite amazing to witness, by the way.

"Where you were then?" I inquired, crossing my legs and brushing my yellow bangs from my face.

"I went to see about a job at that surgery I told you about," explained John, glancing over the evidence and information that had been collected so far concerning the current case over the mantle.

"How was it?" Sherlock said.

"Great," John responded, enthusiasm welling in his voice. "She's great."

That time, it was Sherlock and I who exchanged quizzical looks with each other. We peered back to the short male. "Who?" said Sherlock.

John peered back at us, a soft blush of embarrassment at his slip of the tongue blossoming on his cheeks. "…The job." he said quickly.

"_She?_"

"_It_."

Once more, Sherlock and I looked to one another but didn't pry further. Instead, Sherlock nudged his curly head in the direction of his open laptop. "Here, take a look," he instructed. Arching a brow, John shuffled over to the desk and read the article that I had displayed upon the screen. He read it out loud. "It happened last night." Sherlock informed him. "Chap shot down in his flat. Doors locked, windows shut from the inside. Just the same as Van Coon."

"God…" breathed John. He looked to his partner. "You think-?"

"He's killed another," confirmed Sherlock. I just nodded, indicating that I knew of that as well thus, why I was there.

"So what do we do?"

"Inform Scotland Yard and convince Dimmock that these deaths are connected and that Van Coon's demise was not a suicide."

Just nodding, John went to grab his jacket. Sherlock rose from his crouched position. I watched the men shuffle around before hesitantly as if I was some sort of sheepish child afraid of being rejected (I mentally kicked myself instantly), "Is it alright if I tag along?"

Both men ceased in their movements. John glanced to Sherlock, who was staring at me. I stared right back trying my best to not look hopeful. Why did I suddenly need permission? I hadn't cared before so why did I care now?

"Do as you wish," Sherlock suddenly said monotonously, knotting his scarf.

And I tried not to smile, ignoring the surprised look on John's face. I just gave a nod, keeping my face composed and shrugged on my coat. I couldn't help the building excitement as I followed the two men out of the flat and out onto the curb where Sherlock hailed a cab.

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><p>Dimmock, clearly, was foolishly stubborn. Foolishly and annoyingly stubborn.<p>

Despite what we had pointed out the officer and the ballistics report that he claimed to have received, he still didn't seem to believe us. He still believed that Van Coon's death was a suicide and that Brian Lukis' death were not connected.

Thus, I reiterate: Detective Inspector Dimmock was foolishly stubborn.

Now, I could understand the urge to prove Sherlock wrong, it is very tempting, but when the facts were right in front of you proving that you were wrong, you're just being ridiculous. Suck up your damn pride and admit that you are wrong; it makes things easier on everyone. It also doesn't waste time.

But I digress…

Even though the Detective Inspector didn't believe us, he did permit us to search Lukis' apartment.

And that's where we ended up after our—incredibly frustrating—conversation with Dimmock.

Lukis' flat was very ordinary. Clearly a man with not a lot of money, but could live with a fair amount of comfortableness. He was also quite messy as numerous amounts of his possessions were strewn about. Books were stacked in different corners, papers littered the floors, clothes were lying on pieces of furniture, and so on so forth.

The four of us entered and Sherlock, John, and I—though, I wasn't sure what I was looking for—began looking about the cluttered home while Dimmock watched us in apparent exasperation. John rummaged through Lukis' books, I inspected the black piece of paper on the floor that looked like origami, and Sherlock was looking out the window.

I noticed a small smirk tug at the corner of Sherlock's pale mouth, a certain twinkle in his pale eyes. My brows furrowed, faintly recognizing that look: he had found something. Then, I heard him mutter, "Four floors up." His raised his voice, addressing the rest of us. "That's why they think they're safe. Put a chain across the door, bolted shut, think they're impregnable. They don't reckon for one second that there's another way in."

"I don't understand," confessed Dimmock, bewilderment evident on his youthful face.

"Dealing with a killer that can climb," Sherlock announced, brushing passed Dimmock and to another section of the flat. We filed after him. He scrambled up to look through a new window in the hallway. We watched him, Dimmock with furrowed bros and John and I with interest—yes, he had definitely found something.

"What on Earth are you doing?" Dimmock asked flabbergasted.

"The killer can scale walls like an insect," the consulting detective stated, prying open the window. "That's how he got in."

"…_What?_"

"Climbed up the side of the wall, ran along the roof, and dropped in through this skylight."

"You're not serious. Like Spiderman?"

"He scaled six floors." Sherlock turned to the other male looked a bit offended by Dimmock's comment of the building to Van Coon's flat and that's also how he reached the top floor of the bank onto the terrace." He sighed and hand a gloved hand through his thick curls. "I have to figure out what connects these two men."

Sherlock peered quickly around until his eyes landed on a pile of books piled on the staircase below. He descended the carpeted steps and picked up one book to look inside. Closing it swiftly, Sherlock rushed out of the flat. I jumped and shouted over the railing, "Hey! Wait! Where the Hell are you going?"

"West Kensington Library!"

Huffing with a roll of my dark blue hues, I grabbed the back of John's jacket, ran passed Dimmock, and after Sherlock before we lost him.

Did that man ever stop moving?

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><p>I will say this now: I <em>love<em> libraries. As often as I could, especially growing up, I'd go to the library and read anything I could until it was closing time—I guess you could say it was my own personal sanctuary. It is such a pleasantly quiet place where no one can disturb me and the smell of old pages, leather bindings, and etc. is marvelous. I love libraries.

However, of course, considering the situation, I had no time to enjoy what West Kensington Library could offer me. We were there for more important reasons.

John and I trailed after Sherlock as he went to the front desk. He asked the sweet, little old lady if she could scan the book for us and tell us where it had come from. In her high, creaky voice, she happily obliged and pointed us in the right direction. Graciously, we all thanked her and made our way through the vast bookcases for what we were searching for.

We found the right aisle and marched down it.

"Date in the book," Sherlock whispered to us—we were in a library, after all. "Is the same day that Lukis died."

The three of us rummaged through the books surrounding us in search of the right shelf.

I pulled a couple books out to look through them, but I froze seeing what lied behind them. There was something bright and yellow painted on the back of the shelf. John saw it as well as his reaction matched mine and he cleared away more books to reveal exactly what I figured would be behind them.

An intricate design that looked very similar to the one at the bank. It wasn't the same, but it was similar.

"Sherlock," John called to his partner, immediately catching the man's attention.

Sherlock made a noise of confirmation once seeing the graffiti.

"The cipher was here, too." I uttered softly.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded from my other side. "It's another warning."

He wasted no time in taking pictures on his phone and once that was done we hurried back to 221B Baker Street to add our new evidence to the rest. It was obvious that Van Coon and Lukis were connected. They had both received warnings from the cipher and when they did not heed them, they were killed by someone, who could climb great heights and with little difficulty. Unfortunately, that was all we had. As to why they died, we had no idea. Only the cipher the tell us.

That being, we went out to find out what we could about the cipher. Except, only John and I didn't know how we were going to go about it.

Thankfully, John asked the question that on both our minds as we tried to match Sherlock's long strides through the open London area, "I'm sorry, but where are we going?"

"I need to ask some advice."

I blinked.

Had I heard that correctly? Had Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, _the_ Sherlock Holmes just admitted that he needed help? No…No way, but I had heard it and from John's pleasantly surprised expression he had heard it too.

And you bet we were going to enjoy this rare moment to its fullest.

"I'm sorry," I began, a teasing smirk on my face. "We didn't quite hear that. What did you say?" John looked like he wanted to laugh.

Scowling, Sherlock glanced between us—he was blushing, I could see it no matter how slight. He snorted and looked away as we continued ascending the stony steps towards the building he was leading us to. "…You heard me perfectly well. I will not say it again."

"You need advice?" John mused, a smirk obvious on his face.

"On painting, _yes,_" Sherlock said with slight aggravation. "I need to talk to an expert."

And apparently, Sherlock's expert was a street kid. He had to be in his late teens, very early twenties, who was dwelling in a back alley with very short brown hair and surrounded by a bag full of spray paint cans. He was by an iron door that was already painted upon with a fairly accurate look police officer.

We marched right up to him.

"Its part of my new expedition," the boy announced once he spotted us approaching.

"Interesting," Sherlock said with little to no interest after barely glancing at the graffiti.

The boy smirked smugly, even chuckling, "I call it 'Urban Bloodlust Frenzy'."

"Catchy," said John, looking at the painting with a hint of disdain.

Dryly, I added, "Kinda long."

That caught the boy's attention and looked like he was about to snap, but stopped, looking me up and down with a particular look in his eyes. I arched an idle brow. "Hey," he greeted huskily. "Are ya model or somethin'? Ya look _awfully_ familiar."

Before I could open my mouth, Sherlock jumped in, his tone brisk, "_No._ She's no one."

I glared at him, suddenly mad. That was the second time he had done that in two days. What in the world was his problem? Why did he keep doing that?

Nevertheless, before I could say another on the matter (AKA snap at Sherlock), the boy shrugged, glanced at me once more, and returned to his work, "Well, I got two minutes before a community service officer comes 'round that corner. Can we do this while I'm workin'?"

Sherlock, taking out his _Blackberry_ and pulling up his pictures, he shoved it towards the boy—what the Hell was he so annoyed about? The young man, after tossing an unsuspecting John his spray paint can, took it and skimmed through the photographs.

"Know the author?" asked Sherlock.

"Recognize the paint," the boy admitted after a moment. He started listing off what he knew about the paint—apparently, there was a lot more to spray paint that I had first figured, who knew?

"What about the symbols? Do you recognize them?"

"…Not sure it's a proper language."

"Two men have been killed, Raz. Deciphering these is the key to figuring out who killed them."

Raz scoffed in pure disbelief. "And this is what you've got to go on? Its hardly much now, is it?"

"Are you going to help us or not?" Sherlock grounded out firmly.

Raz sighed in defeat. "Ill ask around."

"Somebody must know about it."

"_Oi!_"

Jumping, all of us turned to see two police officers jogging towards us.

Sherlock grabbed his phone from Raz and my hand and we ran off. Raz dropped whatever else was in his hand and went the opposite way. However, John wasn't as quick. We had left him behind. I would've gone back, but I was a bit too distracted by the sudden physical contact from Sherlock and the instinct to not get caught by the coppers-I also temporarily forgotten that I had been angry with the man holding my hand.

I had only yanked my hand back, blushing and furious, when we reached an open street. "What the Hell do you think you're doing?" I snapped, holding my hand close to my chest as if Sherlock had burned me.

He looked back at me strangely like I had grown two heads. "What are you talking about, Larissa? I just saved you from getting arrested." he pointed out coolly.

"First of all," I said angrily through my teeth. "For the umpteenth time, my name is _Elise_, not Larissa. I have never given you permission to call me that nor to touch me. Second of all, why the _fuck_ do you keep telling people that I'm no one, that I am not who they think I am?"

"Because it's a distraction," he said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "If others figure out that you're the international model Elise Cooper then they will get distracted and lose interest in the matter at hand. I cannot have that, too much of a hassle."

My eyes narrowed upon feeling a sharp pain in my chest. "Are you saying I am a hindrance?"

"In a sense, yes."

My jaw dropped as I stared at him in disbelief, the pain in my chest increasing.

I blew up, "Well, _excuse me_, asshole! I'm sorry that I'm such a terrible inconvenience to you!" I turned on my booted heel and started to storm away.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock called after me.

"Anywhere you're not, so I don't have to burden you anymore!" I shouted over my shoulder and I stopped down the sidewalk.

I tried my best to swallow back my angry tears and the pain in my chest as I walked away.

Why did I ever bother with that man?

* * *

><p><em>Thank you for reading! Please, review~!<em>


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